


Welcome to Blackgate

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: All the tropey shit that goes with a Prison Au, Angst, Art, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bad Writing, Barebacking, Branding, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dick is sassy, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Gore, Gratuitous Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Rough Sex, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Violence, Whump, don't expect much plotwise or good writing guys, everyone is a jerk, it's all downhill from here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:05:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 53,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There are only two things you need to know about Blackgate Penitentiary.One, the warden doesn't run the prison. Jason Todd of the Red Hoods and ex-assassin Slade Wilson do. Either you pledge your loyalty to them or die under their heel. Two, no one ever leaves Blackgate.Dick's never been any good at following rules.





	1. Welcome to Blackgate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissNaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/gifts).



> A gift for MissNaya. There was a post about tattoed Jason and Slade fighting over Dick inside prison and I just had to write something terrible. All mistakes are mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADDED: MARCH 5, 2019
> 
> Some art of Jason's tats! The art on the right was done by the lovely [Naya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya)

Here's the thing that outsiders don't know about Blackgate Penitentiary.

Common knowledge tells people it's home to the ugliest buildings in Gotham city barring the eyesore that is the city itself. They are towering multi-layer abominations of brown brick and adobe covered in ocean salt. Likewise, inside is scum so bad that the word "humanity" doesn't even register as a proper description. And that's withholding the men that make up the inmate population in Blackgate.

What most people don't know about Blackgate Penitentiary is that the warden, Martin Joseph, has as much as a handle on the affairs inside the prison as the toilet cleaner does--and even then the fucking janitor is higher in the pecking order than fucking Warden "Cocksucker" Joseph. Currently, Blackgate doesn't have a boss in the right sense of the term. Jason would say it was himself since no one else had their hands in half of the operating CO's pockets, but Slade would say otherwise.

Jason doesn't care what Slade fucking thinks. He's going to be out by the end of this year when his boys on the outside finally pull the right strings to get him transferred to Bludhaven's prison. It's the principle of the matter that pisses Jason off. It doesn't matter if Slade has some high kill count from cleaner work he did in his twenties and thirties. The man has spent half of the last two decades in some kind of cell and just because a portion of Blackgate's lifers fantasize about worshipping Slade's wrinkly, white-haired dick doesn't mean he's hot shit.

Jason hasn't had the joy of fighting Slade since they were interrupted two years ago, but he can't wait to punch his smug face in on the eve of his escape. For now, his truce with Slade is tentative and agreeable. He keeps to himself, which is the best Jason could want from him.

"A little more ink isn't going to make you any tougher," speak of the devil, "Jason."

Slade's voice is a low rumble from the cell across the walkway. Their placement is a joke, facing each other on opposite sides of the cellblock--third level because a few of the officers are hoping one of them decides to end it all with a knotted blanket one day. Jason sets down his tattoo gun, a rudimentary thing he made out of some fish's Walkman and wire, and shakes away the sting in his freshly tatted hand.

"Pot and kettle, Slade," Jason wipes the inky blood off on his shirt and studies his work. The skull is probably the best design he's ever done. It's realistic and badass with grooves of teeth flexing over his knuckles every time the skin moves. There's a little red ink in the design, which cost him at least a gram of the purest cocaine and cafeteria detail, that makes it look like it's crying blood. The tougher you are the more respect you get and Jason's the toughest-looking bastard in here. He covers it with a piece of gauze and wraps it with cloth torn from the bed.

Slade rolls off the bed and stands up. He's one to talk about ink, he's fucking covered in colorful tattoos that range from roses to the artistic gleaming of a shotgun barrel. _Fucking hypocrite_. Slade wanders over to the bars and loops his arms through, watching Jason.

"Well let's see it then, boy," Slade says.

Jason smiles and lifts the opposite hand up, flipping him off. "Sure, how's it look?"

Slade's eye is a cold and dead thing. Perpetually emotionless and Jason wonders how anyone could ever think this boring piece of shit was anything to be scared of. Especially when Jason, leader of the Red Hoods, was inside Blackgate too.

"First week," Slade says. "Want to bet?"

First week means new arrivals, probably five or two max, and a month's worth of entertainment. Jason likes watching the fish scramble to fit in, especially the ones that think they can become _top dog_. Probably the only thing Jason appreciates Slade for, that the old bastard can teach fresh meat what's what when one of them gets too mouthy.

"You ready to lose again?" Jason hides the tattoo gun back into the slit in his mattress. "You've been betting on the wrong horse for the last three months."

"I have some more of that red ink you love so much," Slade tilts his head. "For your gun."

Jason narrows his eyes but nods. "Sure."

Slade pushes himself off the bars and goes back to bed. Jason huffs and moves back further into his cell. They aren't friends, doesn't mean they can't play games with one another. _Anything to make this place less boring_.

* * *

_I don't think I've enjoyed a prison hearing more than this. Richard Grayson, I sentence you to fifteen years at Blackgate Penitentiary for grand larceny and four escape charges in the 3rd degree. May God have mercy on your soul_.

Looking back on it, it probably wasn't the best idea to sleep with Judge Barnes' wife. She was lovely, red-haired with long legs and longer lashes that batted up and down the moment Dick offered her, her "dropped" wallet. Really, he'd only intended to get an invitation to the house, make off with the original Renoir Barnes' had just acquired from auction, and disappear back into Bludhaven where he'd call Kori for a congratulatory fuck. But Mrs. Barnes, Lucy she insisted he call her, was there and willing and Dick could hardly be blamed for staying with the way her legs parted and, god help him, the hint of lace peeking beneath her skirt.

An hour slipped by without notice--what can he say? Dick likes to take his time--and Mr. Barnes was there, tomato-faced and raging with 911 on speed dial. Normally, Dick would be out of the house, but it's kind of hard when Mrs. Lucy Barnes had him handcuffed to the iron bedpost. Ironic. Barnes had planned on arresting him for some bullshit charge until his fingerprints flagged his extensive list of priors in Bludhaven and the rest is history.

"Are you stupid or something? Name and back number."

Dick blinks. The officer in front of him, a portly man with severe acne scarring, taps his clipboard. Dick smiles instantly and ducks his head, faux bashful. He's been through this song and dance so many times he could do it in his sleep. The officer doesn't buy into his naive routine and only repeats, a little more irritated. "Name and back number."

"Richard Grayson, 60813," Dick drops the smile and glances around the processing room. Bland white walls with a ventilation duct on the roof no bigger than his fist. He can write off just walking out the front like in Bludhaven's Men Correctional Facility. That had been hilarious.

"Grayson, huh?" The officer says and grins privately to himself as he checks off the clipboard. Dick can tell what's coming next. "You're a good-looking guy aren't you? Doubt that will be your name for long in here."

Ah, there they are, the insinuations. Dick will give the CO, a Mr. Cobblepot, props, at least he's lasted a little longer than the others. The last time he went through processing the officer that did his pat down told Dick that if his ass were still intact by the end of the day he'd consider having a go. Dick laughed and that night stole the officer's uniform and car when he made his escape. Dick isn't stupid, he knows he's good looking--to the point of arrogance as Kori would say--doesn't mean helplessness is part of the package.

Dick bats his eyes at Cobblepot in blatant misunderstanding and asks. "Why?"

Cobblepot frowns and mumbles something insulting under his breath. "Keep walking through, you'll be assigned a cell number and given a mattress. That's the only mattress you'll get so don't destroy it unless you're planning on sharing in the future."

Dick gives Cobblepot a little bow and steps past him. He has no plans to stick around long to even need a mattress, but he takes one and winks to the officer in charge of inventory. “Thanks for sharing the mattress, sweetheart.”

The officer, a woman this time named Isley, ignores him. “Inmate 60813, you’re in cell 40 level 2.”

“Crossing my fingers that I’m bunking with you, gorgeous,” Dick says and blows her a kiss before following the arrows on the floor to the cellblock.

If there’s one thing that Blackgate has on the Men's Correctional Facility, it’s that the cellblock is, strangely, clean. Probably the only thing about the place that was. There's the overwhelming stench of stale seawater and the lingering traces of sweat but that was all. Doubtful that extended to the staff or the prisoners themselves. Every other newspaper in Gotham was preaching about the corruption in Blackgate every other weekend. No one ever did anything about it though, not that Dick minded. The more immoral the workers the more chance he had to slip out.

No one’s allowed out of their cell while Dick and the three others he came with make their way across the room to their rooms. There’s a cacophony of whistles and jeers the moment the barred door buzzes open. The man behind him immediately moves closer like he’d try to stick onto Dick if he could. Dick falters for a moment, he’s used to being new, but Blackgate is infinitely larger than the jails he’s spent less than half a week’s time in. Come to think of it, he’s never made it through sentencing before either.

“Fresh meat, hey, look at me when I’m talking to you,” a rough voice calls from the upper level. “Bitch, hey.”

“Fishy give us a smile,” another, this one a little closer, shows off his crooked teeth. “Come on, give us a smile.”

“Pretty boy, look up here,” Dick stupidly glances out of the corner of his eye towards the voice. The man grabs his crotch when he catches Dick’s eye. “That’s right, baby, it’s just for you.”

“Hey, boss, I think you got your prisoners mixed up, I didn’t know you could bring girls in here.”

“Fresh meat-“

“Fish!”

Dick ignores it best he can, zoning out like he used to in front of the crowds at Haly’s Circus, with calm, deep breaths. The man behind him isn’t doing so well, clinging to the back of Dick’s uniform that makes everyone start shouting.

“Hey! How’s that ass feel, porky?”

“Fatass, give it a pinch for me will you?”

The man behind him whimpers and moves closer. Dick, tired and not wanting to look weak in front of everyone, shoves him off a little too hard. He falls, loudly to the floor with a dramatic cry, curling in on himself as the surrounding officers rush forward. 

“Hold it, inmate,” one of them barks at Dick. He groans and watches as the eyes of the entire prison focus solely on him. _Well, so much for trying to keep under the radar on day one_.

And Dick does what he does best. He shrugs and smiles. “Certainly, what do you want me to hold?”

The baton to his chest is, honestly, a relief.

* * *

Jason watches the scene quietly from above. He looks across the way at Slade’s cell and notices, for once, a spark of interest in that sole eye.

Jason huffs quietly to himself and pushes himself away from the bars. He'd honestly thought the pretty boy, with that obscene jawline, would start bawling first. He’s lost the tattoo gun, but he won’t lose _this_.  
   
He raps on the bars in the cell next door.

“Yeah?” Comes the immediate reply. Jason shoves an entire carton of cigarettes into the waiting hand in the cell over. 

“Me and the pretty boy, a moment alone tomorrow.”

* * *

Dick’s roommate is another non-violent serving life for a heap of bullshit drug charges and is too doped up on his own prison supply to give Dick any trouble save for the inane “you’ve got some nice tats” when Dick undresses for the night.

His roommate’s name is something plain and easily forgettable, Liam or Lee, and the only good thing he manages to do for Dick is tell him with an ass like his he better find a good protector. Dick doesn’t tell him he’s not exactly innocent to using his own fists. Might as well have some amount of surprise whenever the first attack comes. God knows it will.

“Shower’s first after breakfast,” Luke says. “Then one-hour free time inside, then lunch, then one-hour free time outside, then five hours in your cell and last dinner."

“Anything else?” Dick wanders over to the bars. It’s barely dawn, but he’s barely slept at all. There are three levels to this particular cellblock, no windows. Dick will get a better idea of the exterior once he’s outside then he can start planning his exit.

“Yeah, clear your corners,” Leo rolls over in his bed. “If you see a corner coming up and a door on the other side run. That’s where they’ll get you.”

“Does it always happen that way?” Dick catches the glint of a mirror on the upper floor peeking down into his cell. He steps away from the bars and a voice whispers above.

“Come back, sweetheart, I’m not finished yet.”

“No,” says Lucas. “But until you hitch your horse to someone tuff, you might as well keep your back to the wall.”

By breakfast Dick's worked out most of the tension that's kept him up most of the night. He has half of the prison playing audience as he moves through stretches and Landon, bless him, snores through most of it. Maybe he's being stupid. But he's never been one to run away from a challenge and this, as far as he's concerned, is no different than leaping off a tower with no safety net.

Except in this case there's no safety net and numerous lions with open, drooling mouths at the bottom. Dick shudders as a low whistle echoes across the block when he starts doing leg raises. He's not going to let them scare him into acting meek and complaint. He'll do whatever he wants, he's not _afraid_ of them.

_I'm not going to be here for long either way, they won't get a chance_.

Roll call before for breakfast is a quiet affair. They all leave their cells, wait for headcount and then walk in their lines to the mess hall. Those on mess staff leave a good hour before everyone else, blurry-eyed and yawning. He makes not of each of the staff members and plans to ask them about job rotation later.

The man Dick knocked down yesterday steps out of his cell, snot-nosed with pink, puffy eyes. Dick gives him a little wave and the man resolutely avoids eye contact.

"Don't do that," Logan says.

"Don't do what?" Dick watches as third level cell doors open. A man steps out alone from his cell, surprising considering how most have two or even three to a cell, eye patch around his head. "Be friendly?"

"No," Louis looks around. "Be a smart ass."

"What about a stupid ass." Dick faces forward but keeps eye patch in the corner of his eye. "Is that allowed?"

"See that's what's going to get you in trouble, more than your looks," Luca gives him a slow once-over. "And that's saying something."

"Thanks for the compliment."

"You're hopeless. Listen, there's a bunch of smaller gangs in the prison, ok? Crime family members staying with each other, but the really big ones are the Red Hoods and Slade. Don't start shit with any of them and they'll leave you alone. They want a favor? You do it, understand?"

The Red Hoods ring a distant bell in the back of Dick's mind. He's heard about them on the news every now and then notorious for turf warfare and drive-by shootings. Dick remembers the trial that sent their gang leader to Blackgate, but he's forgotten about them since.

"Ah," Dick says. "I'm assuming they also ask for a membership fee?"

"Jesus," Luke shakes his head. "Okay, wise-ass. Don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

Jason catches Slade in the line on the way to the cafeteria. He slides the tattoo gun into Slade's waiting hand and takes hold of his wrist when he tries to draw it back.

"I know what you're thinking and I'm going to do you the favor of telling you right now to back the fuck off." Jason knows Slade's tastes run in tall, dark-haired and smart-mouthed. Before Slade had any idea who Jason was Slade had tried to teach him "better manners." Both had been sent to solitary, but Slade had a broken arm for the attempt and half a chunk of his bicep missing. Jason earned a broken leg and jaw, but Slade never tried again. He sees that same look in Slade's eyes now when he looks at the pretty boy, 60813, and he'll be damned if he lets Slade take what's obviously his.

Slade merely raises a brow and scoffs. "I wasn't aware I was under your command now, boy."

"Unless you want another mouth to spit gum out of you'll back off," Jason lets him go and steps back in line.

Slade turns then, grabbing Jason by the collar of his shirt and slamming him against the bars of a nearby cell. The shiv Jason's kept on hand since day one slips out and presses against Slade's neck the moment his thumbs dig against the lump of his Adam’s apple.

"Todd, Wilson!" One of the officers barks. "Break it up or it's a week in the hole!"

"Listen to me very carefully," Slade leans in, beard scratching against Jason's cheek. "You don't tell me what to do, I don't tell you what to do. Do you understand? Nod once if you do."

"Fuck you," Jason spits and digs the shiv in a little harder. Slade squeezes a little harder as a trickle of warm blood snakes down Jason's wrist.

"Never tell me what to do again," Slade hauls Jason off the bars and shoves him to the floor. "Whoever gets him and can hold onto him keeps him."

Jason glowers at Slade's back and slips the blade into his sleeve. Just for that, Jason thinks he'll make Slade his bitch too.

* * *

The first time it happens is in the showers. It’s so obnoxiously cliché that Dick could cry if he wasn’t so fucking taken off guard.

He’s been separated from Luke since breakfast, Luke going off to barter food for whatever drug of choice was being passed around the tables. Dick had shrugged off the sharp eyes that watched him fill up his plate and instead kept to the outside of the room marking the doors and position of the guards. He’d have to earn his place on the cafeteria crew, then he could see what kind of exits he was working with in the kitchen. So far, that looked like the only possible escape route.

When they shuffled into the showers it had been in their entire group Dick, stupidly, thought that no one would attempt anything while on his own. 

“Shit,” the man in the neighboring shower had said when Dick stepped into the open one beside him. “You better find somewhere else, I don’t want to deal with any of this shit today.”

“Stage fright?” Dick grins and elbows him. “Don’t worry I’ve seen smaller.”

The man frowns and shoves Dick back. “Shut your fucking mouth and keep to yourself. Stupid fish.”

Dick shrugs and went about taking one of the fastest showers in his life. He had soap and that was about it—hadn’t been able to buy anything in terms of haircare yet—and was halfway back to the lockers to change when he was crowded into the corner. He’d barely seen them coming. There was three of them all various shades of ugly that thought they were being subtle. Subtle enough, Dick had been too busy looking at the barred windows ten feet off the ground and wondering what it’d take to break one.

“That’s some nice ink you got there, fish,” one of the men said reaching out to brush a hand down his bicep. Dick moved away before those fingers could make contact with the colorful tail feathers of his robin tat. Fuck if he’ll have the memory of his mother be seen let alone touched by these bastards.

“Thanks, I like yours too,” Dick eyed the gothic lettering across his chest. “No ragrets, was it your artist that couldn’t spell or you?”

Ragrets’ gaze darkens and he steps closer to Dick. “You like to talk don’t you?”

“Well, it is one of the most basic methods of self-expression,” Dick says. “I’m afraid I never learned sign language.”

The fist that nearly swings into his stomach moves so fast and hard it cracks the tile behind him. Dick leaps out of the way only to get his arms wrapped up by Ugly on the left. He’s still soaking wet with water--thank whatever God is still looking out for Dick’s dumb ass--because it makes it all the easier to wiggle free of the grip. He considers bolting for the door, thinks about how much worse that will make his standing with the rest of the prison, and settles for kneeing No Ragrets into the groin.

Dick’s on the floor in less than a minute. He’s naked, towel flung off in some puddle of water nearby and the three men pinning him down. Dick scrambles his fingers against the tile and tries to pull himself out from underneath them but he can’t and he’s stuck and he’s going to-

“Get the fuck off of him.”

The weight on Dick’s back disappears instantly. He pushes himself up onto his hands and glances up.

The man Dick saw earlier in roll call, Eyepatch, is standing there, glaring at the three men around him.

“We didn’t know he was yours,” Dick has half a mind to correct Ugly that he isn’t anyone’s but his jaw hurts so he says nothing.

“Get dressed all of you,” Eyepatch steps around them and offers Dick a hand. It’s calloused and rough in Dick’s smooth palm. He wobbles a little on his feet, ankle aching from the bad landing. Eyepatch is quiet while Dick adjusts his tender ankle, watching him with cool amusement.

“Slade,” the man says after a while.

“Dick,” Slade raises an eyebrow and he amends, “Richard.”

“I don’t think you need me to tell you that what you did was stupid,” Slade says. “No one appreciates a wise ass in here, especially someone who looks the way you do.”

“And that would be?”

“Cute,” Slade says. “Pretty, sweet-looking, take your pick. Doesn’t change the fact that if you keep nipping at people’s ankles one day there will be too many to stop. Like now for example.”

“Thanks for that,” Dick says. 

“You may change your mind in a second,” Slade doesn’t look the least bit apologetic. “What happened isn’t going to stop."

“I had a feeling,” Dick let out a breath. “I can handle it though.”

“Like you just did, didn’t you, boy?” And if that doesn’t make Dick just grind his teeth.

“Even idiots figure out when something isn’t worth the trouble. Besides, I’m not planning on sticking around here for long.”

Slade grins then, a private predatory thing and shakes his head. “What, you think you’re going to get out of here one day?"

Slade steps in and Dick steps back. “There is no way out of here, kid. People aren’t stupid like the other little daycares you’ve done time in. I’d buckle in if I were you because you’re going to be here for a very, _very_ long time.”

“Then you clearly don’t know who I am,” Dick says and Slade looms ever closer. His back meets cool tile he feels trapped like a butterfly stuck to a wall. His savior smirks darkly and suddenly Dick wants his three attackers back. At least with them he knew what he was dealing with. The unease in his gut from Slade is terrifyingly alien to him.

“Clearly,” Slade stalks closer. “You don’t know who I am either, little robin. Because if you did, you’d think twice about rejecting my kindness.”

“And what kindness is that?” Dick breathes out, barely higher than that of a whisper.

“A _very_ beneficial relationship.” Slade takes a step back and leaves, taking Dick’s peace with him.

* * *

Jason gets him during rec.

The new kid’s made himself at home with the gymnastic equipment, doing loops and god knows what else—all that matters is he looks like sin doing them. He’s gathered a small audience, watching him out of the corner of their eyes. One of the smaller gangs, the remnants of the Falcone crime family, are impressed with his fancy feet. They’ll probably ask him if he wants to join their crew, but it wouldn’t do the fish any favors. The only gang worth joining in here is Jason’s.

If only for a little investment of course.

Jason’s sitting with his boys at the far end of the yard when he decides it’s time to talk to the fish. His crew gets up when he does and spreads out, getting the audience to disperse and head back inside while Jason saunters over to the gym equipment.

The kid is hanging upside down from the bars.

He's Hollywood handsome with a body cut to match the perfect line of his jaw. It's kind of obnoxious how perfect the guy is, which makes it all the more important that Jason owns him and Slade doesn’t. Like a child unwilling to share their favorite toy.

"You're used to being the center of attention aren't you, golden boy?" Jason sits down on the nearby bench. Mr. Perfect does another crunch before letting himself hang from the bars.

"Of course, I am, have you seen me?" The man smirks and gestures to himself. "I'm a walking “Good Living” advertisement."

"I heard there was a bit of a scuffle in the showers. On behalf of those idiots, I'd like to extend my sincerest apologies."

The man eyes him carefully then offers a hand. "Richard, Dick."

Jason takes it. The hand is warm and almost silky smooth, kind of like the rest of his body. What Jason wouldn't do to put a few marks of his own on him. "Jason, I heard you had a run in with Slade this morning."

That had pissed him off. He'd have to pull some strings to get put on janitorial duties or something, teach him for sniffing around when Jason told him to back off.

"You should stay away from him," Jason says. "He's nothing good."

"And you are?" Dick grins with that pretty, pink mouth of his. Fuck, he'd have to be a little more careful or else he'd force Dick to his knees right here and now.

"Ain't no one good in here, princess."

Dick pulls himself up from the bars and looks down the bridge of his nose at Jason. That gets his hackles to rise a little bit like Dick is some uppity little bitch that has the right to look down on him like all of the worthless shits in North Gotham do. Bastard makes it look cute though and that, in itself, is dangerous. He could have the prison wrapped around his pinkie finger if he wanted. But Jason was smart, he could play this game as well as anyone.

"You look kind of young to be in here," Dick drops down from the bars. Standing on even ground Jason is both taller and bigger than Dick. That makes Jason puff out his chest a little.

"Old enough to be sentenced to fifty years armed robbery and three counts of murder," Jason preens. "Do you know who I am?"

"A little boy that's trying his hardest to play at the adults' table," Dick leans in, close enough that he feels a puff of breath against his cheek. "I know what you want, and you won't get it."

Jason smiles. "We'll see about that, Goldie. There's only one person in here that can promise you protection guaranteed and I'm a lot more generous than anyone else in Blackgate I can promise you that."

"I'll take my chances," Dick winks and pulls back as the alarm to return to the cellblock buzzes across the yard. Jason watches him go, focusing on the way the light sheen of sweat on his back glistens in the sunlight.

"Roy," Jason says. "I want you to put Dick's name on the hit list. If they can make him break and come to me by the end of the month, everyone gets a cut of dope."

With Jason's luck, Dick would be begging to be his bitch by the end of the week.

* * *

Luke tells him he's stupid that night.

"There's really nothing between those ears isn't there? All you got from your parents is your good looks and that's it. Who in the world goes to prison doing what you do? You're the biggest idiot I've ever met. What were you thinking? Propositioned by both Slade and Jason and you tell both of them no? No one would have touched you if you said yes, you'd be at the top of prison hierarchy and you said no."

"I won't be here long enough for that to matter," Dick watches the guards patrolling the bottom floor. He tries to ignore the prowling eyes from the cells on the upper floor. He ends up looking up at Slade's cell, it's dark and empty.

"Thick-skulled," Luke mutters. "There’s no way to escape, don't you think any of us have tried? You're stuck in here along with the rest of us. It's better to use what bargaining chip you still have before it becomes worthless."

"Nothing is impossible with me, Lucas," Dick pushes away from the bars. "Soon you'll have your own personal cell again and no roommate to worry about." Luke glares at Dick’s purposeful incorrect use of his name.

"On that, I have no doubt. I just don’t think the reality of the situation’s hit you yet.”

* * *

Dick starts keeping track of the attempts the following morning.

He takes a pen and makes a little line of ink on the inside of his wrist. By the end of breakfast, three more join it.

They're feeble attempts, it actually embarrasses Dick. Nothing is as terrifying as the moment on the first day in the shower. The ones that occur the second morning along the same line as a drunk frat boy trying to cup a feel on a sober sorority girl. Half-hearted and weak, the more or less turn tail and run back to their tables when Dick tells them no. He’s dealt with worse from blasted businessmen in Bludhaven bars. This he can deal with, he’s had more than his fair share of practice.

Most of the population keeps their eyes on Slade and Jason who, more or less, publically made their interests known. It doesn't matter that Dick rebuffed them, so long as they expressed their interest he's more or less untouchable for the next few days. It's all he really needs. By the time the other men grow bold again, he’ll be out of Blackgate and halfway planning his next hit on Gotham high society. And when he's done he can add “escaped the toughest prison on the Eastern seaboard to his resume.”

He reaches the count of ten by dinner. A few of the men are sporting bruises and Dick has a twisted ankle from slipping on tile from making too sharp of a turn while running.

He asks around on how to get put on cafeteria duty. They all tell him the same thing. "Fish aren't put on that rotation until they've been here for longer than a month. You can ask a favor for Jason, though. The Red Hoods are in charge of labor rotation here."

Dick crosses off the cafeteria from his escape list and focuses instead on the security surrounding the guard closets. In the past, all he's had to do to swipe a card off a guard was bat his eyes, bite at his lower lip and they'd come running.

He tries it out on the one CO, Cobblepot, who always seems to be on guard duty in the yard when Dick exercises.

"You think you’re really clever don't you," Cobblepot says when Dick starts doing the splits every time he passes Dick in the yard. "I'm not stupid enough to be swayed by a pretty face, not like the rest of the animals in there."

_It's okay_ , Dick thinks to himself, _it's okay there's always something else_.

Three days after his arrival about a third of his forearm is covered in black singular marks. It's around the same time the men, eager to try but nervous of Slade and Jason, stop being scared.

It doesn't happen on his third night but it gets pretty damn fucking close. He doesn't even see it coming, just one second he's walking in line on the way back to lock-up and he's being shoved into the wall in the hallway, two guys at his back, one working on his pants and two more guarding either end of the hall.

"Shhh, shh, baby, I'll be fast," someone whispers into his ear and gives his ass a little squeeze.

And Dick, ever helpful to his own demise, says. "You said it not me."

It’s a small line, Dick comes to know then, between people wanting to fuck your brains out and knock your teeth in. The only thing that saves Dick from having his throat slit and the shit kicked out of him is the random appearance of one of the few unaligned guards. Dick gets off lucky, with a bloody nose and a fractured wrist for his trouble.

It hits him by the end of the second week when his arm is covered in so many black lines that he's had to move onto his left that he might actually be stuck here. When Dick went to prison in the past he'd never look at it as anything but a stay for a few days in a disgusting hotel where "checking out" was more of a game than anything.

But now, fuck, now it's really sinking in that he's stuck here for the next fifteen years, or ten at the minimum for good behavior. He's one of the few nonviolent inmates inside of Blackgate and fuck _he doesn't belong here!_

He doesn’t cry, he’s not that much of a pussy, but he remains frozen on the top bunk of his cell for the majority of the day that Cobblepot gleefully threatens to drag him out by the ankles if he doesn’t move.

He has to get help from someone, it doesn’t matter at this rate he’d be lucky to make it to end of the year let alone fifteen with the way the cellblock watches him. In the end, it really comes down to a 50/50 choice, Slade or Jason.

Dick hates being proven wrong but he hates being so fucked up he might as well be dead.

He delays his choice between the two for another week until he overhears a conversation between two Red Hoods in the locker room.

“The papers went through yesterday. Boss should be getting transferred out of Blackgate by the end of October. Got a rookie operating the truck that will be transporting the bus off the island.”

“Not a moment too soon, we need the boss back out there or else the gang will be dead in the water in another year.”

Dick smiles to himself. _Good things come to those who wait_.

* * *

 

"Jason."

Dick stands as relaxed as he can in front of Jason's cell. The walls are covered in posters of models, scantily clad and seductively posed. The man himself is lying on his mattress reading, of all things, _Pride and Prejudice_.

Jason barely looks up. "Dick."

"I need to talk to you."

"By all means," Jason gestures with a hand. "Step into my office."

Dick can hear the muffled conversations taking place around the block all but silence the second he steps into Jason’s cell. Maybe it's just the blood pounding in his ears drowning them out, either way, he doesn't like it.

"We need to talk," Dick says eventually.

Jason sets the book down beside him and sits up, face shadowed from in the fading light of the cell. "There's only one thing of interest you and I could possibly have to talk about. If it isn't you can turn tail and go right back to your cell, goldie."

Jason slides off the bed and stands up, blocking out the fading light from the window of his room with his body. Dick tilts his chin up and smiles, appeasing and defensive.

"I need to get out."

"Don't we all," Jason takes a step forward. Dick doesn't back up. "Hasn't anyone told you yet? There's no way to leave this place."

"I'm not deaf and I'm not stupid. Just because everyone else doesn't like looking you in the eye doesn't mean I don't and I know you're looking for outs same as me."

"Oh? Are you threatening to tattle on me?" Jason takes another step forward and this time Dick _does_ back up. "That's going to be a little harder than you think, sweetheart. The warden, okay? He's my bitch. The officers? If I tell them to jump they ask me how high. Ain't no one going to listen or care about what you say. Got it?"

"I'm not planning on it," Dick ducks his head to the side the way he knows shoves off the tanned skin of his unmarked neck. "I want a ticket for the ride out of here."

"It's a steep asking price," Jason's voice pitches lower and he eyes Dick's neck with the same hunger a feral dog eyes a bone. "I'm not sure if you can afford it."

"Try me."

"This isn't a once off," Jason says, firm. "You don't give me some shitty handy and you get access to everything you want. Maybe that works on the men you've dealt with outside of Blackgate, but I'm not them. You're mine, whenever I want, however, I want, where ever I want. If I tell you to suck me off in the middle of the showers with everyone watching, you do it no whining. As handsome as you are, Goldie, I could have anyone I fucking wanted in this prison. You give me trouble you’re on your own. Understand?’

Dick swallows, but nods. "Yes."

"Good," Jason nods and steps around Dick to grab the makeshift curtain on the side of the room. Before he pulls it shut Dick catches the eye of Slade, standing in the middle of his cell, watching quietly with a cigarette pinched between his lips. Icy dread creeps along his spine and Dick quickly averts his gaze. Slade’s a nobody, Dick made the right choice going to Jason.

The moment the curtain's up Jason attacks him. Dick's shoved against the wall with Jason's lips crushing his own. Dick's had plenty of sex with all sorts of partners, but Jason rushes him like a storm, their teeth clacking together painfully in a rough kiss that splits open his bottom lip.

Jason pulls back instantly, lips slick with blood and spit as he huffs a laugh and slips a thigh between Dick's legs. "I've been wanting to do that for ages."

"No wonder that was terrible, you've barely had any practice," Dick grunts as Jason reaches a hand up into his hair and yanks his head back.

"I don't know get how no one's been able to shut you up yet. That fucking lush mouth of yours," Jason presses another hard kiss to the corner of his mouth. "That attitude, you're just begging for someone to teach you manners."

"I doubt you're the best teacher to do it," Dick tilts his head to the side as Jason rumbles a low laugh into the heated skin of his neck. “You’re the poster child of bad behavior.”

"Maybe not, but I know how to put that mouth of yours to proper use."

"Like I haven't heard that one before- _oh_ ," Dick sucks in a breath as Jason bites down on the sensitive skin beneath his jaw. Jason digs his teeth in harder and Dick whines lightly, clinging to Jason's arms.

"What? Nothing to say now, pretty boy?" Jason's stubble scrapes along the bitten skin and huffs a laugh over the hollow of his throat. "Thought so."

Jason slides a hand beneath Dick's shirt, running his nails over the curve of his hip before moving back and tracing circles around the divot of his spine. The other gathers up Dick's wrists and pins them above his head. Dick closes his eyes, panting loudly, breathless already as Jason presses flush against him with that big body of his. It's stupidly unfair that Jason, who’s similar to Dick in age and appearance, has such a large physical advantage. The thought disappears the moment Jason grinds a large thigh up against Dick's rapidly stiffening cock.

“ _Shit_ ,” Dick struggles to keep his balance.

"You make the sexiest sounds, baby," Jason groans and does it again. Dick feels light-headed and deliciously helplessness. The hand tracing patterns on his back slips beneath the waistband of his boxers and squeezes his ass. " _Fuckkk_ , how are you even real, sweetheart?"

"Pinch yourself and find out," Dick laughs breathlessly. Jason spanks him in return.

"That mouth, doll, that fucking mouth." Jason pulls away, taking his warmth with him, leaving Dick whining pathetically. "On your knees."

Dick doesn't like to be ordered around, even if he has agreed to the arrangement. He steps up to Jason, letting his eyes drag slowly over his body--especially with that twink waist of his--with an assessing smirk of his own. If he’s going to promise himself to anyone in the prison, he's glad Jason's at least a little bit handsome.

Jason rests a hand on his shoulder and pushes him down, Dick staring up at him while he goes. Dick shivers the moment his knees hit the concrete and reaches up, pulling down Jason’s prison slacks. There's an impressive bulge already beneath the stretched fabric of Jason's boxers, but the size of it still takes Dick off guard when he pulls those down.

"Hurry up, sweetheart, we don't have all night," Jason's voice rumbles above him.

"I see your mother never taught you how to be patient," Dick grins and presses a kiss to the slit. Jason tastes salty and undeniably male and Dick, _fuck_ , Dick’s missed dishing out a good old blowjob. He loves oral, okay, sue him. Dick flicks out his tongue to swipe at his lips before he opens his mouth and gently draws in the tip. Jason sucks in a sharp breath above in, fingers carding through Dick's hair.

"Knew you'd be good at this, doll," Jason tugs sharper as Dick swallows him down halfway. "Especially with how much you run your mouth."

Dick rolls his eyes and relaxes his jaw, pulling back and popping his mouth off. He runs his tongue along the underside of Jason's cock, bringing another hand up to cup his balls. He exhales softly through his nose and takes Jason into his mouth again, sucking him down to the root. Jason gasps above him and twitches in Dick's mouth. Dick’s own cock twitches in interest at the cute sounds Jason’s making himself.

" _Shit_ , doll." Jason pushes deeper into his mouth. Dick shoves his gag reflex down and hums softly, drool dribbling out past his lips. "I ain't even done nothing to you yet and you're already a mess."

Jason fucks his mouth lazily for a moment or two, pulling out then pushing all the way in until Dick's nose is buried in his coarse hair. Dick let's his eyes flutter close, focusing on just breathing in and out through his nose with the occasional muffled moan. He idly reaches a hand down his pants and palms himself. Jason never said he couldn’t enjoy himself. When Jason finally pulls all the way out of Dick's mouth he cups his chin with a hand, rubbing a thumb along his plump, lower lip.

"That's a good look for you," Jason pushes his thumb slowly inside, pressing down on Dick's tongue. "And it shuts you up good."

Dick grins, sharp around his thumb and bites down lightly. He pulls his head free of Jason's grasp and says with a raspy voice. "You have to do better for that."

Jason's pupils are black pools of feral lust and wry smile that shows off the hint of a canine stretches across his mouth. "I do don't I?"

It happens in a second. Jason launches himself at Dick like he did at the start, hauling Dick up by the collar of his shirt and throwing him down onto the bed. The bed, nothing more than a hard slab of plastic with an inch-thick mattress on top of it, hits Dick's sore cheek hard. _Pride and Prejudice_ goes sailing off the bed. _Poor Mr. Darcy_ Dick thinks _pushed away again_. He groans under the hot weight of Jason on his back, his own cock uncomfortably hard beneath him. Jason shushes him and pushes his shirt up and rakes his nails down Dick's back.

"Jason," Dick whines when Jason pulls his pants down and nips at the small of his back.

"That's right, doll, keep saying my name like that," Jason purrs and spreads his cheeks apart. "When was the last time someone fucked you properly, pretty boy?"

"I'll have you know I'm a virgin-" Dick yelp as Jason cracks a hand down on his ass.

"With an ass like this? I doubt it," Jason leans over Dick, the length of his wet cock rubbing against the puckered, pink skin of his hole. "Best be honest with me, doll, because I like it better when they squirm."

Dick buries his face into the mattress as Jason nips along the shell of his ear. There's the rustle of fabric near his head and he pulls away with a little laugh. "I'll be gentle with you for our first time."

The pop of a lid snaps open somewhere above him then a cold, wet thumb is pressing inside of him, agonizingly slow. Dick closes his eyes and sighs into the rough sheet of the mattress while Jason mumbles _that's it, that's it_ , over him. There's a moment, as Jason fingers him open with his thumb and then another that a wave of embarrassment floods over him. He's really doing this, he's really selling his body in order to escape from Blackgate. Dick knows, has always known, he was a slut, but even this, this seems to be pushing the package. He’s gone from average Gothamite street-walker to coked-out whore desperate for a fix.

Then Jason's fingers curl inside of him and Dick _keens_ into the bed. Jason chuckles darkly above him. "Stay with me, doll, I want you to stick around for the show."

"How can I not when you keep fucking talking?" Dick thrusts back against his fingers. "Maybe I should have asked Slade for help instead- _ah, ah_!"

Dick digs his nails into the bed as Jason cruelly pushes his fingers up against his prostate, unrelenting in their assault. Jason snarls above him, feral like a wild animal and sinks his teeth into the curve of his shoulder, right on top of his robin tattoo.

"Jason! _Jason-ah, stop_ stop don't- _mmm_ ," Dick whines into the bed and tries to scramble away until Jason grabs his hips and drags him back.

"Don't say that bastard's name, Dick," Jason says, serious. "Don't even want to think about him right now." He punctuates it with another punishing press against his prostate.

"Possessive much?" Dick gasps. "You should talk to a therapist about that."

"I'll settle for fucking my prize instead," Jason withdraws his fingers and slicks himself up. He thought having Jason in his mouth was a lot, but as Jason pushes inside the air in Dick's chest leaves him in a whoosh. He pants heavily into the bed, bearing down as best he can but Jason is fucking _big_ and god he can barely do anything than just lie there and _take it_.

"That's it, baby, that's it," Jason grips Dick's hips and languidly rocks him back onto his cock. "Take it just like that."

" _Jason_ ," Dick honest-to-god whimpers, wetness clumping on his eyelashes. " _Oh, oh, oh, Jason_."

"You have a pretty voice, doll," Jason bottoms out with a sigh and runs a hand up along the curve of Dick's spine. All he can do is lay there stretched open completely and utterly fucked. "Sing louder for me."

Jason pulls back, nearly all the way out where the tip of his cock is barely past the ring of muscle before he slams entirely back in. Dick fucking _wails_. His voice cracks on the last note and he digs his teeth into the bed, moaning wantonly like the tart he is, curling away from Jason's steady thrusts because it's too much at once. The blood in his veins is white-hot, skin feverish to the touch and he can't get enough.

Jason takes one hand and wraps it loosely around Dick's neck before he pulls him back, up off the bed and onto his lap. The pace of his ruthless fucking doesn't falter and if anything gets a little faster at their new position. Dick's head resting on top of Jason's shoulder while a rough hand fingers at the hollow of his throat. His own dick, dripping wet with steady beads of precum, slaps against his stomach a bright and angry red. He wants to touch it, he needs to touch it, but it's all he can do to sink his nails into Jason's thighs and _hold on_.

Incoherent blubbering slips past Dick's lips as he tries to say please, but all that escapes is another pitiful whine and Jason, devoid of commentary himself, only squeezes Dick's neck and growls lowly into his ear.

Climax hits him like a slap, startling him out of any semblance of thought as ropes of come cover his stomach in hot, stringy trails. He clenches down on Jason tightly a pathetic cry wringing out past his lips. Jason, slows his pace just enough to move his hand up from Dick's hip, drag a finger through the warm come and offer it to Dick's lips.

Dick opens his mouth easily, letting Jason smear the musky taste of himself across his tongue. He swallows and sucks on Jason's finger for any leftover trace. Jason groans.

"Fuck, you're a filthy thing, doll."

Jason bites him again, tenderly this time, as he drives a final thrust deep inside Dick as wet heat floods through him. Jason holds him there, rocking his hips as he milks the last of his orgasm, sucking at the skin beneath his teeth.

Jason drops Dick back onto the bed, boneless and too tired to complain about the handling. Dick sighs as Jason pulls out, his hole fluttering in little spasms after that fucking. Jason hums and reaches down to stroke a spit-slick finger against Dick's puffy hole, pushing a bit of the come back up inside him. Dick lets his eyes close.

"You'll bunk with me," Jason says after a minute. "I won't have you sharing a cell with some junkie who'd sell your ass for a whiff of dope."

Dick is too tired to think straight so he just slurs. "Beats the walk of shame back every day."

"We're going to have to work on keeping that tongue of yours in line," Jason stands up from the bed and wanders over to the sink. Dick lets his eyes shut, sated and drowsy. There's a rush of water and a wet cloth lands on his shoulder. "Clean up, lock up is in ten minutes and you'll need every second to get back to your cell, doll."

Dick can only groan. _What has he gotten himself into?_

* * *

"Wilson! You have a visitor."

Slade pauses and eases himself down from his handstand, glancing up at Cobblepot in front. He does another push-up and lowers his feet to the ground. Cobblepot waits, looking just to the side of Slade’s head to not make direct eye-contact. That’s good. He knows who’s boss.

Slade has to pass Jason's cell on the way to the stairs. The curtain is up but he can still catch the faint stink of sweat and sex from inside. He remembers the way Jason winked at him before the boy drew the curtains shut after Grayson had moved into his cell. He'll give the punk credit he’d thought Jason was going to take what he wanted the moment Grayson batted his pretty blue eyes Jason's way. His patience was about as long as his pinkie nail. He was a lot more cunning than Slade first thought, using the cellblock to drive Grayson into his arms. He’d have to be more careful in the future.

The visitor center is dark, a sole light above the desk where Slade's to meet his late-night visitor. Not much of a guess to who it is if the telltale haze of cigarette smoke and the stink of polished leather is anything to go by.

"Roman," Slade greets as he takes a seat. Roman crushes the cigarette butt out and leans forward towards the bars.

"I hope you know how much I dislike coming here," Roman says, barely attempting to conceal his disgust.

"The warden and the Red Hoods are very thorough in shifting through outside communications. Unless you want them to know what you're up to, you'll deal with it."

Roman frowns, but relents and reaches into his jacket to pull out an envelope. He opens it and holds up the paper inside it.

_Transfer five million to account number 00743275611_

Slade nods. "I expect to receive word of the transfer tomorrow evening at the latest."

"I don't know why I'm paying you for this," Roman stuffs the paper back into his jacket. "We're after the same thing."

"You came to me first, Roman," Slade leans back in his seat with a smirk. "That's just good business."

"A caught assassin doesn't get to lecture me on good business sense," Roman leans back in his seat. "Now, a deal's a deal. What do you know about the Red Hoods weapon trading?"

Slade recites what he's heard over the last week exactly. The dates, the cargo, the transportation, the when, where, and how. Jason is cunning, but he's gotten too comfortable in his position at the top of the prison food chain. It makes him stupid and ignorant to just who might be listening. It works out for the lot of them. Roman takes out his biggest competition and Slade won't have to share his position of power in Blackgate with Jason for much longer.

“Another thing,” Slade adds when Roman’s starting to stand up. “The rest of the Red Hoods are planning to get Jason transferred to Bludhaven by the end of October. See what you can do about that won’t you?”

“Steal Jason’s own escape plan for yourself?” Slade can hear the vicious grin in Roman’s voice. “Sure.”

“No, just cancel the truck. Whatever you need to do to not let the order for a prisoner transfer go through.” Roman looks at him carefully then he laughs.

“Crazy son of a bitch, you want to stay in there? Fine, be my guest doesn’t matter to me.” Roman slides out of his seat and nods. “Until next month, Slade.”

Slade watches him go, frozen in his seat until Cobblepot comes back to fetch him to his cell.

No one gets out of Blackgate.  
  


* * *


	2. Dead to Rights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyle Bolton comes to Blackgate and Jason scrambles to stay in control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The much darker part 2. Got a little bit of everything people suggested. WARNING: there is hardcore rape/non-con in this chapter not just super dubious consent. That section will be marked with a (+/-) for those who want to skip it.
> 
> Drink every time there's a character cameo or a spelling error. Just kidding, you'd be dead.

There’s something about the saying “hitting rock bottom.”

Dick knows that it’s possible, depending on how stubborn fate is to make your life as shitty as it can in a given lifetime, to go way beyond “rock bottom.” Like literal hitting the center of the Earth type of fucked five ways to Sunday rock bottom. He’s been there once himself. It’s called watching your parents fall to their death and being put in a foster care system following a string of abusive parents then being thrown out on your ass at 18. As much as Dick wants to think he’s hit rock bottom landing in Blackgate he’s well aware things can get much, _much_ worse. The trick is by knowing how much worse things can get so you appreciate how everything else is not "totally" bad. Sort of like a "glass half full" outlook. Dick's good at looking at the positives.

For example, Jason, as a roommate, is a lot more demanding than Luke was.

He’s got his faults. They all do. He’s anal to the point of hyperactive OCD about the cleanliness of their cell where Dick’s noticed that the posters on the wall of various Gotham Starlets—Selina Kyle _woof_ —are arranged by color followed by size. Jason also has a strict workout schedule, expected with his massive 6’2 foot 220-pound frame, that has him wake up at the ass-crack of dawn for a little pre-breakfast yoga. Dick doesn’t mind that so much. Sometimes, if he isn’t sore from the night before, he’ll usually join Jason.

That’s the other thing, the constant _fucking_. Jason is a year or three younger than Dick and has been in prison for two years. Going off the fact that Jason must be a later bloomer—because Dick’s got a high libido he’s always known but Jason is alien in that sense—Dick finds it hard, if not impossible, to keep up with Jason’s post-puberty nymphomania. Dick can hardly clean himself after a marathon of their brutal, nearly-animalistic, fuckfests without Jason finding something inane to pop a boner over. He’s crass and foul-mouthed with no regard for keeping his “minor” anger issues in check.

But he’s the best chance Dick has to get out of this mess relatively unharmed, barring the wellbeing of his ass. In the long run, Dick would rather be looser than a twenty-five-year-old porn star after filming a gang-bang than spend an entire month, let alone the year, in Blackgate. At least Jason still has enough moral decency to still treat Dick like an _actual human being_ and not a walking blow-up doll like the rest of the general pop.

“I’m talking with Roy today at lunch,” Jason says. He’s got his hands beneath him, legs out in straight lines as they hover off the floor. “You can come if you want. If not I want you to keep to yourself. I don’t want to find out you’ve been starting trouble with anyone.”

Right, there are still some bruises on his hips from the “punishment” Jason gave him after working up one of the white suits across the courtyard yesterday. Walking down three flights of stairs to breakfast is going to be hell, but it had been worth it to see Nygma’s face when Dick told him his riddles sucked.

“Not my fault that no one here has a sense of humor. I thought the inmates over in the mental ward would appreciate a good joke.”

“I have enough trouble on my hands running my gang _and_ babysitting your dumbass,” Jason huffs and slowly draws his legs up underneath him. “One of these days someone is going to teach you what my cock can’t.”

“It would take more than one cock to shut me up, little wing.” Dick glances out of the corner of his eye to catch the rush of pink on Jason’s cheeks. The nickname had been said off-handedly after Dick had found out about Jason's apparent youth. It embarrassed and pissed Jason in equally extraordinary measures and if Jason got to call Dick variations of doll and other demeaning names Dick sure as hell got to call him “little wing.”

“Yeah, well maybe we can do something about that so you remember,” Jason lowers himself to the ground and crooks a finger at Dick. “Come get your breakfast, _doll face_.”

Dick flattens his mouth and climbs over the railing of the bed. His back aches as he lowers himself to his knees and pulls down Jason’s slacks.

_It could always be worse._

* * *

 

“We have a problem.”

“There better be if you’re dragging me away from my fabulous meal, Roy.” He’s lying. Everything Blackgate serves is shit. No surprise there. Roy is twitching, scratching at the crook of his arms where the faded purple of old track marks stubbornly linger. In the dark pits of his mind, Jason always assumes the worst in people. The prison-appointed therapist, Dr. Crane, said it was due to a deep-rooted fear of emotional intimacy, but Jason is a realist. Which is why the moment he and Roy clear the hallway away from the cafeteria he pins Roy to the wall.

“You relapse?” Jason shakes Roy. “Answer me."

“No!” Roy holds up his hands but that jitter is still there, foot tapping loudly on the floor. “Shit, Jay you know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Then what the fuck has you so hyped up?” Jason shakes him again. “Why are you so upset?”

“Joseph’s resigning,” Roy lowers his voice. “ _Effective immediately._ Jay, he hasn’t signed off on the prison transfer yet.”

“So we get the new one to sign off on the order,” Jason says. He takes a deep breath through his nose and quietly breathes out. “Tell Artemis to get whoever the new one is on the payroll or threaten them. Relax, Roy you’re freaking me out.”

“Sorry,” Roy says and actually manages to pull himself together with a shaky nod of his head. “Right, sorry. It just gets harder when I’m stressed.”

“Talk to Waylon,” Jason lets Roy down and pushes him back towards the cafeteria. “Don’t come to me if it’s this bad without seeing him first, Roy. Tell Cobblepot to take you to see him in solitary and I’ll give him an extra bonus this week.”

Jason doesn’t know how or when Roy made friends with that scaly, mutant freak, but he helped Roy quit and that's good enough for Jason. The last thing he needs is his second-in-command unable to do his job from the shakes. Roy's the only one who can slip through the prison without the same attention Jason does as leader of the Red Hoods. Without him, well, Jason doesn't even want to think about it.

Jason worries at the bottom of his lip as he watches Roy go.

* * *

Dick sees Roy come back into the kitchen sweating and itching at the back of his neck. Doesn’t take someone versed in body language to know when someone’s suffering from withdrawals. Dick’s only known Roy for a few months, as long as he’s been in Jason’s “custody.” Before he had Roy penned as a non-violent inmate probably arrested on a heap of drug charges—like his former roommate—that only gave up the addiction because of how impossible it was to land good heroine in Blackgate. Then he saw the Red Hoods tattoo. Jason can do a lot, but he’s no miracle worker.

There’s a clack of plastic on metal next to him as someone sits down at the table. Dick assumes it's another member of the Red Hoods—Dick’s learned them all by their willingness to approach him even after Jason staked his claim—so he doesn’t look away from Roy who beelines to Cobblepot.

The voice that speaks after a moment is not one of the Red Hoods. Not even close.

“Do you know how to make a knife?” Slade asks. He’s folding his napkin over his lap in a strangely polite manner. Dick stares at him and catches a few of the Red Hoods that are still milling about the cafeteria gawk at Slade’s audacity. They don't move. Fear keeps the rest of the prison at a distance. Dick might be Jason's but Slade is the only other shark in Blackgate big enough to be a terrifying opponent.

“Excuse me?” Dick says when Slade goes about buttering his piece of toast than clarify his cryptic question.

“Do you know how to make a knife?” Slade repeats. “I assume Jason prefers you to be completely dependent on him for protection, though that’s not going to help when you’re dragging him down.”

Dick narrows his eyes and Slade takes a bite of his toast. “I’m not helpless.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Slade nods. “I’ve never met someone who could disembowel men with just his tongue. The problem is that most of the men here don’t run off to lick their wounds from a tongue-lashing. I’m sure you remember that being rather useless.”

He does remember. There’s a painful throb in his bad wrist from the last time he back-talked a group of men trying to assault him.

“What does it matter to you if I know how to?”

“Don’t mistake my questioning for something as pathetic as concern. I’m merely looking out for my future investments,” Slade turns to Dick. “I protect what’s mine even if your current master doesn’t know the first thing about watching after his toys.”

“You have a lot of opinions about things that will never happen.”

“I have a lot of opinions because I’ve been around long enough to know history has a tendency to repeat itself like a broken 80’s record.” A few of the Red Hoods, they’re all lower level, the bright black yet unfilled letters of their tattoos peaking beneath their shirts, are getting antsy. No one wants to confront Slade directly. Dick realizes then that Jason is probably the only person in Blackgate who’s ever stood up to Slade. New inmates challenge Jason, even Dick himself wrote Jason off at first. He didn't bother with Slade.

For the first time in Dick’s life he feels like he’s been terribly blind. Slade isn’t some pest vying for top position. He’s fucking dangerous.

Slade continues. “Get a knife made as soon as possible. Offer to suck Jason off so he makes one for you I don’t care just get one.”

Slade picks up his tray and napkin. The Red Hoods are finally getting up from their table to make their way over to Dick. He’s probably going to get an earful from Jason later when they tattle on him. Figures.

“How do you know I’ll need a knife?”

But Slade is already gone.

* * *

Dick’s whine startles even him. Time spent in Jason’s cell has boosted his already high endurance for lasting during sex, but even he can’t go on forever. Wrists pinned beneath rough hands, Dick squirms, over-heated chest pressing flush against the rough fabric of his mattress. Sinking his teeth further into the bed does little to muffle the following keening noise that slips past his lips. He’s shaking violently. Oversensitive and tender all over, he tries to escape Jason’s grasp in his post-orgasmic high.

Jason barely budges. Only moving to shift Dick’s trapped wrists into one hand while the other drags his nails down his heaving chest. It’s borderline painful. Pleasure fleeting the moment Jason milked a strong climax out of him. Jason hasn’t finished yet. Warding it off by slowing down his deep, body-shaking thrusts when he gets too close. Dick just wishes he would finish already.

Another push to his sensitive prostate has him sobbing loudly into the mattress. “J-Jason, _ah_ , _Jason_ , stop, _please_.”

There’s a loud huff from the cell next door. “Shut your girl up, Jason, fucking hell, all night long.”

Jason snarls like a starving dog over a bone, pulling Dick up against his sweaty chest and biting hard, possessive marks into his shoulder. He comes like that, pinning Dick down aggressively with a low groan into Dick’s salty skin, rocking his hips in deep, stuttering motions. Dick’s fingers ache from trying to scratch grooves into the plastic bed frame to crawl away. Jason lets him go after a moment.

He pulls out and leaves Dick there, a quaking mess on the mattress. Dick turns his cheek against the spit-wet covers, panting heavily as twitches through the afterglow. There’s a rush of water before Jason is back toweling off the sticky mess on Dick’s stomach.

“I can towel off myself,” Dick sighs, eyes closing. “Thanks.”

“You’d fall asleep before you even made it to the sink,” Jason hums and traces a line down the underside of his cock. Dick grabs his hand and pulls it away.

“Enough, Jay.” Dick lets go and Jason clicks his tongue impatiently.

“If I were anyone else I’d beat you for talking like that. You’re lucky I like the sound of your voice as much as the sight of you on your knees.”

“Is anyone in here capable of having a conversation that doesn’t revolve solely around sex?” Dick grumbles. “My IQ is dropping by the day in here.”

“That’s because they look at you and can’t think of anything else,” Jason traces a wet finger around the raw skin of his dripping hole. Dick hisses and arches away from the touch only for Jason to grab his hip to force him still. “You reduce everyone around you into complete savages. They should have put you in solitary, maybe then everyone else would be able to think properly again.”

“Not like it would be a huge, _ahh_ ,” Jason pushes the tip of his finger barely past the rim, “improvement. Stupid enough to get caught and put here.”

“Stupid is as stupid does,” Jason pushes in another finger, idly circling them around the abused skin. It's still painfully sensitive. Dick nearly bites through his lip. “I’m not a fan of pillow talk, doll.”

“Slade told me to make a knife today."

Jason freezes. “What?"

“Honestly, I was just as confused. He sat down beside me told me to make a knife then went back to whatever corner he crawls into when he isn’t dropping cryptic messages into my lap. Which is often by the way,” Dick grinds down against Jason’s hand and moans into the bed. “Why would I need one?”

Jason pushes his fingers in deeper and draws out a long, pitiful groan from Dick. “You don’t need a knife. You have me.”

“That’s what I said,” Dick reaches down and palms himself. There’s no way he can come again so soon, but it feels pleasant with Jason’s fingers inside him. “Said I still would, especially soon.”

Jason curses softly. “We’re getting a new warden.”

“What?”

“Joseph quit today, effective immediately. We’ll be getting a new one as soon as possible. My best guess is in two weeks or three.” Jason pulls his fingers free. Dragging his cum and lube-slick hand up Dick’s chest he presses down on a puffy pink nipple, pebbling it to hardness.

“W-Why’d he quit?” Dick arches into the touch. God, he can’t help it, he’s always been very sensitive there.

“Don’t know yet, but it means that some guys are going to try and rearrange the hierarchy when the new warden comes in. Don’t worry though, sweetheart, most of the change will happen at the low end of the power ladder, you’re safe at the top with me.” Jason pinches the nub between his fingers and rocks against Dick’s ass with a rapidly hardening erection. _To be young again_.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Dick tries to move away from the hand torturing his chest only to push firmer against Jason’s body. It’s almost a relief when the hand presses down to soothe the tender skin and the head of Jason’s cock slips snug back inside him with a wet squelch.

“I’ll get you out of here, doll face, don’t worry,” Jason says.

Dick isn’t able to concentrate on his worries for long.

* * *

Jason, for the first time in a long time, is wrong. It only takes two days for the Blackgate administrative staff to find a replacement for Martin Joseph. They must have been waiting for him to resign for a while. Along with some pressure to quit and the promise of a hefty retirement sum, passive Martin is gone and their new warden is sworn in three days later.

Lyle Bolton is massive.

He looks like something out of a steroid user's wet dream with a buzz cut so flat it would make the military jealous. The warden uniform fits Bolton like a glove and unlike Joseph, who was no better than a child playing dress up, Bolton looks like a walking terror.

They’re all gathered in lines outside their cells as Bolton slowly prowls the lower level as careful as a jungle cat eying a herd of deer.

“Inmates,” his voice is a deep boom that echoes off the walls. “My name is Lyle Bolton. You will address me as sir or warden. I am not here to be your friend. I am not here to brush your teeth and read you bedtime stories like your mommy. As you may have heard the former warden, who failed at the most basic level of his duty, has retired. Blackgate Penitentiary is a cesspool and believe me when I say there are going to be some big changes in the coming days.”

Jason yawns. He rambles on and on the same as a Bond villain, lulling Jason halfway to sleep. Dick fares no better. Those gorgeous blue eyes of his fluttering shut as he sways besides him. Slade watches mutely from across the walkway, eying Bolton with a mixture of cool amusement and irritation. Good, at least they have the same opinion regarding the new warden. He’ll have to get Artemis to soften him up soon as possible. Bolton doesn’t seem like the type of guy to just look the other way on prison transfers. But after a shakedown by Artemis? They'll do anything.

“Someone likes the sound of his own voice,” Dick mutters beside him and Jason huffs his agreement.

Just like that Bolton zeroes in on Dick with near superhuman precision. The rest of the block’s eyes turn Dick’s way both interested and horrified in equal measure. Dick remains purposefully oblivious.

“Inmate!” Bolton snaps. “Number.”

Dick blinks and rests a hand on his chest, glancing around with those bright eyes of his in faux surprise. “Me?”

“Did I stutter?” Jason curls his upper lip. This fucking guy thinks he’s tough because Blackgate made him warden? Shit, looks like he’ll have to change those orders for Artemis. Fuck bringing Bolton onto the payroll, just beat him.

“60813.”

“Do you like to back talk, 60813?” Bolton says. “Don’t bother lying to me. You scum make it easy to see.”

“Perish the thought,” Dick says. Jason elbows him. Of all the times to open that stupid, perfect mouth of his. Slade watches from across the way, gray eye glittering with poorly concealed interest.

Bolton, on the other hand, isn’t. Disdain colors his face a bright shade of red. “Come down to the ground level, 60813.”

Jason catches the glint of mischief flash across Dick’s face the second before he grabs the bars of the railing and flings himself over it. There’s a bunch of gasps as Dick plummets down the short three stories only to land with cat-like grace on the bottom railing of the first staircase and backflip off it. There are a few claps—mostly from the Falcone family, suck-ups—and Jason can only glower down at Dick as he bows. _You idiot what have you done_.

Bolton, unlike the rest of the Blackgate population, conceals his emotions poorly. He’s near incandescent with rage and it leaks into his voice when he barks another order at Dick.

“Get over here.”

Dick walks over with a bright smile on his face and stands in mock salute a foot away from Bolton. “Yes, sir?”

It happens faster than Jason can blink. One second Bolton’s reaching for his baton and a spray of blood later, Dick is on the ground clutching his face while Bolton towers above him.

“One week in solitary, only food and water in the evenings,” Bolton glares up at the rest of the inmates. “And no rec for one month for everyone.”

The upset is immediate. Shouts and complaints drown out each other in a cacophony of noise, but Jason’s too busy watching Cobblepot and another officer hoist Dick up by the arms and drag him towards the solitary wing. _You fucking idiot_.

In the absence of a knife Dick attempted to warn off anyone who sought to go after him in the coming days by using the next most dangerous tool. His knack for performance. By standing up to the new warden and showing no fear most of the lower level men will see him with more respect than they did previously as just Jason’s new whore. That might have worked in Bludhaven’s daycare of a prison system, but Jason knows the men in Blackgate. Seems like Bolton does too.

In a week with the denial of rec that awe and reverence they showed Dick a moment ago will be replaced by sick anger. If Dick had kept his mouth shut the rest of general pop could have bonded together united under a common enemy; Bolton.

Bolton just took the target off his back and put it on the next best thing, _Grayson_.

“Lock-up!” Bolton shouts.

Jason shuffles back into his cell, hands clenched so tightly at his sides there’s the warm trickle of blood down the ridges of his knuckles. He takes a deep shuddering breath and looks back out through the bars. Slade’s gaze meets his. The hint of a pleased smile stretches across the assassin’s face.

Jason works off his steam punching his bare fists into the wall. And, when his hands are nothing but blood and gore, he sticks his head under the sink and lets the water wash away the rest of the heat.

* * *

Jason feels like he’s going insane by the third day. They’d been allowed to leave their cells to shower and eat, until Bolton—already mad with power probably—decided during dinner of the first day he didn’t like the way the prisoners grouped together. So Bolton’s decided to keep them trapped in their cells in his own version of solitary. _Bastard_.

Jason does what he can. He runs laps in the cell. He goes through a more complex version of pilates. And, when the energy twitching under his skin still lingers, he grabs the bars of his cell and holds his body parallel to the ground.

Most of the other men have yet to let the current reality affect them. Many of them men doze throughout the day, Jason’s neighbor gleefully keeping him awake all hours of the night. _You did it to me with your bitch, allow me to return the favor_. And keep to themselves. Slade seems to be the only one who wants to start trouble. Jason has himself a captive audience of one all hours of the day as Slade watches him in near constant vigil.

It’s creepy and Jason, stupidly, finds himself lonelier than he’s ever been. He’s shared his cell with no one for the last two years and then he bunks with Dick for less than a month and gets upset by his absence for less than a week? Just how pathetic has he allowed himself to become?

Jason slams another fist into his upturned mattress. He can feel Slade’s eyes burning into his back, analyzing his every move. He can’t help the shudder that runs from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. He doesn’t like this, this instability. The last time he felt this way in Blackgate was when that-that _freak_ had been brought into general population for a day while they prepped the mental wing.

Jason stops.

Fear hits him like an icicle searing down the scar-dimpled skin of his back.

He hasn’t thought about that day, about that _man_ since he woke up in the Blackgate hospital wing with Dr. Crane tittering over him and Dr. Elliot stitching his body together. He compartmentalized. Jason took the memories and stuffed them so deep into his mind that not even he himself could dig out—much to Crane’s upset. A metal clank sounds violently from the bottom level cells. Jason snaps back to the present like he’s been slapped, the faint scent of blood and hospital antiseptic burning in his nose. Distantly, he thinks he hears someone laugh.

He’s pulling the curtains shut to his room before he even realizes what he’s doing. Darkness blankets the cell and he crouches in the corner of the room, back to the wall, knees to his chest. His heart is a bird in a cage, fluttering wildly against the tightness of his ribs and Jason can’t seem to get the smell of blood out of his nose.

He breathes in through his nose frantically, but the scent only grows stronger so he inhales through his mouth. All he can taste is copper. There’s a dribble of something warm onto his knee. Jason touches his face. It’s wet. When did he start crying?

“Open 52!”

The cell doors reel back at the edge of his door and Jason’s heart stops the moment he sees the shadow pass in front of the cell and _it’s too late he’s coming back-_

Lyle Bolton tears down the curtain with a scowl. He holds the fabric in his hands with a spiteful glare before turning towards Jason. “What do you think you’re doing?"

Adrenaline whooshes out of him leaving him hollow and shaken. Jason stares at the curtain in Bolton’s hands and then at Bolton, unable to come up with anything to say besides a quiet,

“What?”

“What is this?” Bolton says and raises the curtain.

Fear makes Jason irrational, even worse it leaves him angry the same as it does to frightened dogs. Jason snaps. “It’s a curtain, dumbass.”

Bolton snarls back. “It’s against the rules to completely block out cell visibility. What were you doing in here?”

“Jacking off,” Jason reaches down and grabs his crotch, to tightly to be anything but painful. “Sorry, did you want tickets?”

Bolton slams his baton against the cell bars and calls out. “Three men on me.”

Jason picks himself up as Bolton steps into the cell. “Get out.”

Jason bows and steps out onto the walkway. Bolton and the three guards step into the cell. Bolton points to the posters. “A fan aren’t you?"

Jason shrugs. “Who isn’t?’

Bolton reaches up and tears down the first poster. “Contraband.” Then he orders the other three to take the rest. Jason is quiet, he can easily get more, but watching Bolton step all over his things makes his blood boil.

Bolton leaves his cell a mess; scraps of papers everywhere, mattress tossed aside, his shiv he’d hidden in the slit of his mattress taken.

“If I see you put up some sort of curtain again, I’ll take your bed and your toilet next.” Bolton steps back. “Lock-up 52!”

Jason watches Bolton disappear before he knocks on the cell bars next to him. Roy answers.

“Yeah?”

“Get a message to Artemis, I don’t care how you do it I want her to get it by tonight. _Bolton dies_.”

It's the biggest mistake he, unknowingly, ever makes.

The message reaches Artemis just fine. Roy knows how to sneak a message out, rolling it around a cigarette and passing it to the one janitor, Basil, who’s still on their payroll. What Jason doesn’t know is that Artemis is up to her neck in problems, fighting over their turf in lower Gotham that same night. It's a seemingly random grab at power by the entire False Face Society. The whole thing smells like a set-up but the Hoods have been losing territory by the mile ever since Jason was arrested. They have to fight. She doesn’t have time to kill one asshole warden so she sends the only man she can afford to spare, an initiate named Drury Walker.

He barely knows how to hold a gun.

That night when Bolton returns home Walker breaks in through the door carrying only a single nine-millimeter pistol. Bolton has twelve of the same. Walker dies from three precise bullets to the upper torso, convulsing on the ground as Bolton peers down at him through cold, unfeeling eyes.

When the police come to take a statement Bolton catches the peak of a tattoo underneath Walker’s shirt. _Red Hoods_.

* * *

Oswald gets the call to Warden Bolton’s office the next morning.

He hardly knows what for. Oswald isn’t exactly a _stellar_ employee but he does his job and does it well enough that the rest of the officers in Blackgate have stopped making fun of his incompetency and solely joke about his size. Bastards.

Lyly Bolton has only been there for less than a week, but in that time he’s completely redecorated Martin’s old office. The photos of his family are gone replaced by Bolton’s collection of military medals, criminal science degree, and other various awards. _Though not his dishonorable discharge letter,_ Oswald notes smugly. The rest of the office is relatively Spartan. There’s a chair across the large oak table his predecessor left him and a pile of manila envelopes nearly a meter high.

“Mr. Cobblepot,” Bolton says from somewhere behind the mountain of paperwork. “Sit, please.”

Oswald does, settling into the small seat as Bolton continues pouring over the letters and papers in his hands. “You requested me?”

Bolton pauses to shoot him a measured glare. Oswald amends. “You requested me, sir?”

Bolton pushes a folder across the table at him. “Tell me about this."

Oswald takes the folder and opens it up. There are stacks upon stacks of articles stuffed inside so Oswald skims through the numerous pages to get a summary. After a moment he shrugs. There’s nothing exactly linking all of these different papers together, except maybe the fact they’re all Blackgate inmates. “Lots of arrests?”

“No,” Bolton snaps and leans across the table, sliding a photograph into Oswald’s hand. It’s someone’s chest tattoo, black and white and blurry but he can still partially make out the distinctive letting.

“Red Hoods?”

“Yes,” Bolton nods. “Blackgate has an extraordinarily large amount of the Red Hoods gang.”

“Because they’re dumb enough to be easily caught,” Oswald frowns. Did he really come all the way up here to talk about how stupid the Red Hoods were? _Water is wet, penguins can’t fly, and the Red Hoods are stupid, little boys._

“Every man or woman who commits an illegal act is stupid,” Bolton says. He points to a sticky-note attached to one of the papers that contains a series of years with random numbers besides them. _2013-7, 2014-9, 2015-15, 2016-14, 2017-11_. The year 2015 is highlighted. “Do you know what most of these men were charged with?”

“No?”

“Felony drug possession,” Bolton drops the folder he was reading onto the desk. He picks up a paper, reads it off then throws it to the side.

“Drug trafficking,” another paper, “drug possession,” another paper, “drug possession,” another paper, “drug dealing,” another paper, “drug possession,” another paper, “oh, three counts of murder in the first degree and armed robbery.”

Bolton holds up a file with Jason Todd’s face and arrest warrant. “This is the only man who should be serving a sentence here.”

Oswald blinks. “Excuse me?"

“Do you know what the term, supermax means, Mr. Cobblepot?”

Oswald stammers. “I-“

“Super-maximum security for violent and difficult inmates,” Bolton barrels on. “These-these drug addicts are not violent or difficult inmates, the only reason they’re here is because this man,” Bolton points to the picture of Todd again, “ _is._ The number of arrests of the Red Hoods gang increased after 2015, the year Todd was sentenced to Blackgate.”

“I don’t understand,” Oswald narrows his eyes. Of course, there would be a lot of Red Hoods here. Gotham was crawling with them. Red Hoods didn’t dabble in petty crime anyway so why would they be sentenced anywhere else? The moment Jason Todd and the rest of them took to the streets there was nothing that was too far. Blackgate was the only logical place to send them.

“I’m not stupid, Mr. Cobblepot,” Bolton stands up and walks around the edge of his desk. “I do my homework, even if it means doing some things I really don’t like to.” Bolton pauses behind Oswald’s chair. “I know the Red Hoods have deep pockets and aren’t afraid of paying their problems to go away. The fact that there are so many Red Hoods here only makes it all the more likely that the staff is being paid off. I don’t like that.”

“Even if that were true,” Oswald says carefully, setting the folder back down on the desk. “How are you going to stop it?"

“Like this,” and a paper is thrust in his face. It's a check. More importantly, it’s a check with a lot of zeroes. His mouth waters at the sight of it. It's the most beautiful thing he's seen in a lifetime.

“What is this?” Oswald hesitates to touch it as if making contact will make it disappear in a cloud of smoke.

“Incentive for honesty,” Bolton says. “I want you to listen and report back to me about who is taking bribes and other information you find important enough to share.”

Oswald thinks loyalty is about as useful as a piece of wet toilet paper. Jason's meager monthly paycheck is laundry mat money in comparison to Bolton's deal. It's hardly a difficult decision. He pockets the check and eyes Bolton with an assessing smile. “Anything you need, sir.”

“Visit the record room for me, we have a lot of problems to fix."

* * *

When Dick finally leaves solitary he feels like he’s been there an entire month.

He doesn’t remember much past the third, or what he assumes to be, day. Delirious with hunger and even sicker with thirst from the measly tablespoon of water and spoonful of peas, he remembers seeing Zitka at some point. Shows how far gone he was that he didn’t question the sudden appearance of his childhood friend, but worried about how to split the peas between them. It could have been a dream. Once the hunger started he slept to avoid the sharp cramps in his lower stomach or maybe he did share his cell with Zitka in solitary. Alone in the dark anything seems possible.

He never thought he’d be happier to see Jason and his stupid cell with his idiotic poster arrangement and puberty-driven libido. But when Bolton opened the cell door and told the two closest guards to drag him back to his cell he’d honestly thought about giving the prick a mediocre hand job as thanks.

Dick actually isn’t really there, mentally, when he’s taken back to Jason’s cell. He remembers Bolton coming to fetch him from time out, his feet dragging along the ground and then waking up on his uncomfortable mattress while Jason nudged a cup of water to his lips.

“Drink slowly, Dick,” Jason says. Dick thinks this is the first time he’s actually said his name. He smiles to himself, or at least he tries to as he opens his mouth and sips on the water. “Little sips, like a bird, come on.”

He fades in and out of consciousness on his first two days back. Then, out of nowhere, starts running a high enough fever that Dick remembers, only for a moment, Dr. Elliot hovering over his bed with a cool cloth heavy on his forehead. Bolton’s thunderous voice booming asinine orders somewhere out of sight. Dick thought about telling him to stuff it but was too weak to do anything but roll over in bed and fall back asleep.

Jason is dedicated to watching over him. Which he damn well should with all the shit he put Dick’s poor ass through. It’s kind of sweet. Dick hasn't had someone take care of him since his parents died. Never trusted anyone to get close enough. It's nice. He'll miss it when he's well enough that Jason can start pushing him around again. Maybe that's why when Jason leans down to feed him soup on the third night of his fever he brushes his lips against Jason’s forehead.

Jason is boyishly baffled and looks for the first time since Dick met him like the kid he actually was. Not the gang leader who grew up before he was supposed to.

“What was that for?” Jason says, soft and quiet. Dick laughs under his breath and takes Jason’s hand in his own. He kisses the stupid tattoos on Jason's knuckles. “You know this isn’t permanent right? This gay shit stops the moment you can stay awake for longer than half an hour.”

“Gay shit,” Dick repeats and presses another kiss to the inside of Jason’s wrist. “A true romantic.”

“I’ll make you eat it off the floor,” Jason says. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“Hm,” Dick grins and looks at him through his lashes. “Of course you would, big bad Red Hood.”

Dick ends up having to lick his soup off the floor. He’s too hungry to deny himself the meager meal. But it was worth it to see the blush on Jason’s cheeks.

* * *

Jason’s so busy caring for Dick, secluded in their own little world, that he nearly misses the subtle changes happening around the entire cell block. It’s only after Dick more conscious than he was upon his return that Jason notices a lack of familiar faces. He goes to Roy.

“Transfer to Stonegate,” Roy’s voice is a shaky whisper in the next cell over. “Nice of you to join us by the way."

"I've been busy," Jason glances back at the sleeping form of Dick.

"Yeah, well, everyone's noticed. The Blackgate staff on payroll have started to refuse passing letters between cells."

That makes Jason tense. "Why?"

Roy huffs. "Hell if I know, the last letter I got out of here was the one with Bolton's kill order. Maybe Bolton got a hold of it. He hasn't allowed any communication in or out of the prison since. I'd say getting a death threat on the first day is enough to go to this level of precaution. Then again if I were him I'd just quit.

Jason swears. It would explain their sudden month in makeshift solitary without outright confronting him.

"Any letters from Artemis?"

"Not yet, no communication in or out until the month is over. He'll probably read every single letter after this if he doesn't just throw them all away." Roy is quiet for a moment. "I don't know how much longer the officers on staff are going to be ours."

"Fuck that, we pay them they're ours," Jason snarls. "They'll do whatever we say."

"I think there's a snitch or something," Roy goes on. "Or they're getting a better offer from somewhere. Rayner asked Isley for a piece of charcoal to draw with and she took his mattress."

"Shit," Jason's got a lot of work to do. Taking care of Dick and this month-long silence with the rest of the gang means a shitton of work when he gets back out. It's going to be irritating with the sudden lack of gang numbers, but Jason only needed a lot of them for grunt work. He can handle the rest of the inmates with his own strength and cunning. It's not much more than what he does already.

"Who's left of the lieutenants?" Jason can manage if worse comes to worse and he only has Roy, but he'd rather not have to. If anything he can finally make use of Dick aside from his pretty mouth and perfect ass. Might as well repay him for getting them into this mess in the first place.

"Just me, unless you were thinking about making Rayner one now that Lonnie's been transferred out."

 _Lonnie too? Fuck how many enforcers did Bolton transfer out?_ "Make me a list, I need to know what kind of manpower we're working with. Find a guard that still takes our cash and get word to Artemis to get someone to stop the transfers out of Blackgate."

Jason listens to Roy walk away from the bars and further into his cell. He pushes away from the wall and rubs at the aching spots on his temples. He catches Slade watching from across the walkway with a quiet and small smile.

Jason glares and turns away, fighting the anxious coil of tension in the pit of his stomach

* * *

Something's not right. The month of containment is nearly over, everyone seemingly counting down the days like a kid before Christmas. But Dick's been a master at reading body language from the moment his parents taught him how to read an audience. He's used it to talk his way out of situations before, with a bashful little smile when someone's a second away from punching him. He sees the same rumble of violence jump between the cells like an electric charge. The men prowl in the confines of their cells trapped like feral animals.

A few of the weaker men have already been sent to the infirmary from a roommate with more energy to burn. Dick wakes one morning to the howling of what he first thinks is a wounded dog somewhere outside of Blackgate. Desperate to escape whatever trap it had gotten stuck in with throaty, terror-fueled screeches. It wasn't until the morning shift officers came in, hours after the shrieking had stopped, that they removed the pudgy man who arrived with Dick at Blackgate from his cell. His body was nothing but a dark red, gory mess barely clinging to life. His roommate received three months of solitary while the man, who's name Dick never once bothered to learn, was transferred to a minimum-security prison in Metropolis. He was paralyzed from the waist down.

Jason fares little better. Dick can tell he's close to snapping--has partially already at whatever guard finds their way past his cell--and it's nearly turning into distress. Helplessness, Dick knows, is one of the worst things in the world. Jason has been in control of his surroundings even in the depths of Blackgate's nearly inescapable shadow. Trapped in his cell as he watches members of his gang stolen away by Bolton's unknowing and heavy hand Jason is growing desperate and wild every minute that passes.

"Dick," Jason rumbles lowly. "Come here."

And what else is he supposed to do but go?

Dick joins Jason at the side of the bars, looking out over what has been their only form of entertainment for the last few weeks. Jason's been too concerned with regaining the control he had before Bolton's lock-up to touch him. But when Jason's hand reaches up to settle on the back of Dick's neck he knows it's been long enough.

"What are you doing?" Dick says as Jason pushes down on his neck until he's forced to buckle his knees to ease the pressure.

"I think it's rather obvious." Dick hears the rest of the chatter in the prison wane around the same time the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up.

"Just reminding everyone else where we stand." Jason pulls his hand away as Dick settles comfortably onto his knees. "You need me to get out of here and I need you paying your dues, by showing the rest of Blackgate the prettiest piece of ass in this shithole is my property."

Dick flattens his mouth. "I assume loud noises would do just fine."

"Need I remind you that our agreement was that you do what I say when I say it without complaint?" Jason reaches forward and grips his chin with a rough hand. "I'm not here to be your boyfriend. You wanted a way out. I'm making sure that we'll still be in the position to barter for it. Now start paying your dues or else I'll beat you and take it from you anyway."

Jason shoves his face to the side. "A lot of the men here like watching the shit getting beaten out of someone. Either way, I'm looking out for the both of us, got it?"

"And what about the guards?" Dick says and even to him the protest sounds as weak as he feels.

Jason scoffs and motions to the nearest guard on the rail. _Cobblepot_. If the way the grimy, little officer turns his head to the side, carefully glaring out of the corner of his eyes says anything Dick knows he's all on his own.

"As I said, a lot of the men here _like_ watching."

Dick frowns but leans forward to press a light kiss to Jason's slacks where he's already half-hard. He's almost glad the blood rushing in his ears blocks out nearly everything except his own labored breathing. If not then he'd have proof that the prison has gone silent around them. The attention is embarrassing, uncomfortable, disgusting. One traitorous thought snaps across his mind on how much he likes their attention. Being the sole object of the prison's desire, being held so highly that he is nothing more than a status symbol to be safely guarded like a priceless jewel.

He shudders out a breath and pushes the thought away, pulling down Jason's pants and underwear in one go. Dick's become intimately acquainted with Jason's body even more so than his own. It's nearly second nature at this point so he closes his eyes, at least that way he can pretend it's only the two of them.

Jason's warm and salty on his tongue when he tentatively licks the slit. He doesn't know what he should do on display like this. Does he act like a porn star, gagging for Jason's cock or play coy with kittenish licks and kisses before he shyly swallows him? He doubts the men aside from Jason, or Slade for that matter, appreciate decent foreplay so he loosens his jaw, takes a steadying breath through his nose and swallows Jason down to the root.

There's a collection of gasps, soft and loud, around them, but Dick focuses solely on Jason's stuttering little, " _o-oh_."

Dick smirks lightly around his cock, peeking up through one eye at Jason's flushing face. He winks once then closes his eyes and _sucks_.

Jason's hands are in his hair in an instant, pulling and tugging sharply as he fucks Dick's mouth. Dick gags a little at first, it's been awhile since Jason's used his mouth, but he finds a rhythm. A foot presses down lightly against Dick's crotch and he gasps softly before moaning shamelessly loud as Jason grinds down. He's not a masochist, pain never had any kind of effect on him, but Dick's suddenly light-headed. Blackgate has a way of changing people, might as well fuck with his sexuality too.

He pulls away from Jason, opening his eyes. Smirking, he focuses on the glistening strand of spit that connects from his mouth to the red tip of Jason's prick. He licks his lips and looks up, pushing up into Jason's foot, rubbing himself to full hardness. The hand in his hair tightens and yanks his head back, showing off the pale arch of his throat. Dick _whines_.

"Fuckkk, look at him," someone says from the cell across.

"Knew that mouth was good for something besides talking."

"Come on his face-"

Jason ignores them so Dick does his best to drown them out too. He can't fight the shudder that races through his back to the tips of his toes. He's a freak, god he can't believe he _likes_ this. To be humiliated in front of dozens of men this way. A breathless little laugh slips through his lips. Dick leans forward, wincing at the tug on his hair and sucks on the tip of Jason's dick.

"Beg me," Jason says. "Beg me to come on your face."

Dick pulls himself away from Jason's cock and smiles the same show-stopping smile he did as a child. " _Please, Jason_."

And he does.

* * *

Jason's never been happier to see the pitiful excuse for the exterior rec room. He loves the stupid dead grass that stubbornly stays brown despite the numerous attempts Isley tries to make it green. Loves the shitty gym equipment with all the rusty nuts and bolts from rainstorms and sea air. Loves the guard towers and the glint of the rifles sticking out of the windows waiting for one ballsy idiot to climb the fence. He never thought he'd find anything enjoyable about Blackgate's prison but he does.

Bolton's little time out for the cellblock is over, thank fucking god. Jason's forgotten what the sea air smells like. It slaps his senses awake more than the musty air of the prison, full of sweaty men and stale air could. Salty and fresh. _Fuck it feels good to be out_.

It'll feel even better when Jason's put a hundred miles between himself and Blackgate. Hell, he's considering just uprooting the gang and restarting in Star City. Put an entire continent between himself and Blackgate's walls. It still doesn't feel like enough distance.

Dick's off doing backflips and cartwheels and whatever the hell else on the open field in the yard with a stupid, dopey grin on his face. He's amassed a fan club over the last two weeks from their after-hours shows that extends beyond the inmate population. Guards, who continually about working late hours, are suddenly angry that Bolton rotated them to morning patrol.

"Jason," Roy comes up beside him. "We really need to talk."

Jason sighs and closes his eyes. _Right, no rest for the wicked_. "Then let's talk."

Roy is quiet for a moment and then he says, softly. "I'm getting transferred to Stonegate."

It's like getting beaten to death all over again. The fear that cracks through his skull temporarily renders him devoid of emotion or thought. All he does is blink stupidly at Roy and the little freckles that dot his nose and cheeks. Has he gotten more? Maybe.

"I'm sorry," Jason says, carefully because saying it out loud would make it true. "I don't think I heard you right. What the fuck's happening?"

"I said," Roy repeats. "I'm getting transferred to Stonegate at the end of the week. Bolton's been "cleaning up" Blackgate by sending non-violent inmates to lower security prisons."

Jason narrows his eyes. "Does that include-"

"As far as we know Dick was sentenced to Blackgate because it's the only place that can hold him for longer than a single day."

"That doesn't help me," Jason growls. "Dick doesn't have contact with the Red Hoods in Gotham, you do."

"I _haven't_ Jason," Roy bites back, brows knitting together. "No one has since the night of the lock-up. As far as I'm aware? We're on our own in here."

"The Blackgate staff-"

"Have been denying us privileges ever since Bolton became the warden. They're either scared of him finding out about the extra pay they're receiving or getting money to keep quiet. And honestly, with the way Cobblepot's been sniffing around, I expect it's a little of both."

Jason runs a hand through his hair. There's barely enough initiated Red Hoods in the prison to make them a force anymore. The goddamn Falcone family has more members than actual Red Hoods and not just the overzealous fans who joined upon being sentenced to Blackgate in order to feed off their protection. Those men will turncoat so fast the moment there's a larger shark inside the prison to swim after.

Jason has his reputation still. That will at least keep anyone from trying to usurp him until the transfer order for himself goes through.

"What about our transfer order?" Jason looks to Roy. "How are we going to get that to go through now that we can't talk to Artemis about arranging the date?"

"There's only one guard I know that still seems like he's willing to be bribed," Roy pauses and makes a face. "You aren't going to like it though."

"Who is it?"

Roy hangs his head and then mutters, "Roland wants-"

"Absolutely fucking not," Jason snarls. Roland Desmond was a filthy pig with an abusive streak that liked lithe, younger inmates. He only got away with it because he was head of security and kept to himself behind his cameras only appearing when bigger inmates needed restraining. "I don't want anything to do with him."

"Roland's the only one who has access to Bolton's office to forge his signature on the proper papers," Roy spits. "You'd think I'd try to barter with him if I had other options? As of right now, Roland is the only one who's willing to help you get the transfer order through."

"Not good enough," Jason snarls and closes his eyes tightly. "I'll think of something else."

 _Things can't get any worse_ , he thinks.

He's wrong. Things can.

And they do.

* * *

“Close down the mental wing.”

“I’m sorry?” Oswald says.

Bolton hardly looks away from the window. He’s been staring out of it since Oswald came into his office that morning. His hand hurts from writing immediate transfer orders and his ears burn from all the calls he's made to local prisons. He’s sure he’s misheard Bolton.

“The mental wing houses twelve inmates but makes up more than half of the prison’s costs. Close it down.”

“But, the patients in there,” Oswald starts, but Bolton laughs.

“Patients? They’re _inmates_ , Oswald, they shouldn’t get to have fun painting little fields all day while the rest of the general population actually carries out their sentence.”

“That’s because they’re insane,” Oswald stresses. “One of them held an entire bank hostage while he forced them to answer his riddles.”

“Prisoner number 92110, sentenced to Blackgate for 112 counts of murder in the first-degree that he commemorated with a tally mark on his body. Is that not insane enough for you, Mr. Cobblepot? Then how about prisoner number 66089, sentenced to Blackgate for 12 counts of first-degree murder, 3 counts of felony kidnapping, and armed robbery with an affinity for calendars and holidays in the year? Do you need me to go on, Mr. Cobblepot? As far as I’m concerned the men serving their time in the mental health wing of Blackgate are no more sane than the general population, they just get access to whatever they want.”

Oswald flattens his mouth. “You made your point.”

Bolton nods. “Good. Find some cells to transfer them into, should be plenty with the recent transfers. We’ll use the money we save over the next few years to remake the mental wing into another cell block so we can space everyone out.”

Bolton turns away and goes back to watching the yard impassively, like a God witnessing his worshippers scatter from his all-seeing eye. Oswald takes the first folder from the twelve patients confined to Blackgate’s asylum and flips it open.

He nearly drops it. Then he picks it up and smiles.

 _Jack Napier, I think I know just where to put you_.

* * *

Roy leaves Blackgate on Friday. Their new plan works like this. Stonegate is a newer prison with a warden that has a more hands-off approach than Bolton. With the other Red Hoods inside Stonegate Roy will rebuild their communication with the Red Hoods on the outside, continue with the plan to get Jason and Dick's transfer through. October is only three months away and Jason can hardly wait that long. Bolton's an annoyance and Slade's skulking keeps him anxious and on edge at all hours. The longer he stays inside the longer Slade, or anyone else for that matter can try to seize a chance at him. Jason won't go down easily, but he'd rather slip out before he has to fight tooth and nail to keep his position.

A buzz rings throughout the block and Jason glances out the bars in surprise. It's been nothing but transfers the last month, the sudden appearance of new prisoners has become a novelty once again. He looks across to Slade's cell and even the old man is standing up from the bed to take a look down at the incoming men.

He thinks about calling out bets but ever since Bolton raided his cell during the lock-up he has nothing to barter with. Not even a scrap of poster. So he loops his hands through the bars and watches the line of men march in through the doors. He hears one instantly.

"I want to talk to my lawyer," that's definitely Nygma's high nasally voice. "We're not supposed to be in here! Get me a phone I need to call my lawyer. This is illegal!"

"Shut the fuck up, Eddie," Jason can see the ugly burn scars on the side of Dent's face before he hears the low, smoke-roughened voice reach his cell. Jason peers behind Dent and sees the wandering eyes of Lazlo Valentin, dancing to some silent tune in his head. They're all patients from the mental asylum wing in Blackgate, what the hell are they doing marching into the general cellblock like this?

Dick steps beside him and peers down at the parade of freaks currently going through the checkpoint before they're ushered into cells. He purses his pretty lips and quietly peers at Jason.

He shrugs to Dick and goes back to watching as another one of the men from the nuthouse is led through. But there's something in the back of his head that's telling him to get away from the bars. Quietly, filling his stomach with roiling dread and Jason doesn't know why until he sees the face of the man he'd spent the better part of his second year in Blackgate pretending never existed.

"Hello, Blackgate!" His skin is still a freakish white, yellowish teeth on display past the abnormally bright red of his grinning lips. He stands with his arms raised up and proud like a carnival's devoted ringleader. "It's good to be home."

There's that fucking laughter again, that high-pitched, shrieking hyena-laugh. Jason wishes the crowbar hit his head harder. If he were unconscious he wouldn't have to listen to it anymore. He tries to lift a hand to cover his ears but it won't move. He's frozen, glued to the bars as a strangled breath wheezes out of him.

The memories break open in his mind and drown him. Jason thought this man, this thing, was just another Edward Nygma, fond of showmanship more than he was to committing violent crimes. Jack Napier, an ugly looking son of a bitch who cuddled up to Jason and begged to be put on construction. _My daddy never let me help in the garage,_ Jack pleaded, _please, please, please let me help you Jason, old chum_. He allowed Jack on the construction crew team because all Jack did was tell bad jokes and throw food at the staff's feet. Pathetic and brainless that's what Jason thought.

The two of them were working a cleanup team in a newly renovated room in Blackgate's mental wing, the same room Jack was supposed to get when the building was done. Jason thought he could handle one man. But Jack was never "just a man."

One hit to the head while his back was turned was enough to stun him. When his senses finally came trickling back in Jack had ripped the fresh electrical wiring from the walls to tie his hands and feet together.

" _I've missed this,_ " Jack admired the crowbar with the reverence of a religious fanatic. Dragging his tongue along the iron through the speckling of fresh blood. " _I've always been a great handyman._ "

It took four guards to restrain Jack and three sedatives to keep him still long enough to carry him out. Jason nearly died from internal bleeding and spent the next month strapped down to a bed unable to sleep because of the nightmares. It's what prompted him to find a way to get out of Blackgate as soon as possible instead of waiting to retry his case with a more competent attorney.

Jason didn't think he'd ever have to see that face again, but there he is, waltzing into general population with that large grin on his face like he never left.

"Jason?" He jolts sharply. Dick takes his hand away from Jason's shoulder, brows pinched together. "What's wrong?"

He should hit Dick for touching him, for making him look weak. His leadership is in a very vulnerable position right now. He lacks the manpower and the staff favoritism to stop the men from trying anything. He knows he can fight them off, _but-but-_

"Jack Napier," Cobblepot says, looking down at his clipboard. "Cell 51 level 3."

The blood drains from Jason's face leaving him cold and dizzy. That's Roy's old cell. They're giving the bastard Roy's old cell. Cobblepot looks pointedly up at Jason and smirks. _That fucking bitch_.

"Penthouse suite for me, Ozzie?" Jack elbows him with a bright grin. "You shouldn't have."

Jack looks up and for one terrifying second, Jason's panicked blue eyes meet mad green. Jason disappears into the depths of his cell before he can watch the manic grin spread across Jack's face.

"You really shouldn't have."

* * *

Jason can't sleep.

If he tries to he sees the tapered edge of a crowbar and the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth. Laughter rings so loudly in his ears that it shakes through his teeth. So he stays awake. But if he stays awake then he can hear _him_ moving around next door. Lurking in the shadows of Roy's old cell, waiting and watching.

" _Jason_ ," Jack sing-songs one night. It's a whisper, barely audible but Jason hears it, as jarring as a thunderclap. "Are you awake, my darling boy? I've missed you the rest of the fellows in the mental wing are so dreadfully boring. No one like you."

Jason doesn't dare breathe. Dick, shifts in his sleep on the bunk above him, blissfully unaware. It makes Jason furious. How dare he be able to sleep so soundly when _he_ is next door? How dare this man get to sleep so comfortably when that should be Jason's reward.

"Jason I know you're awake," there's a little giggle, "talk to me, boy, it'll be like a sleepover party. We can talk about our teachers or share our crushes with one another. Come on don't you want to have some fun?"

"Shut up," Jason tries to snarl but his voice cracks pitifully halfway through. He rolls off of his bed and takes a shuddering breath, drawing his hands into his chest then out. _Don't let him get to you._

Jack is absolutely delighted on the other side of the wall. "Oh, there he is! My little amigo, it's been so long since I've heard your voice. I missed it so much while I was in the asylum, especially the way it cracks like that."

"Stop talking," Jason snaps. He raises his hands above his head and goes through the starting motions of his morning routine. He focuses on his breathing and peers out into the darkness past the bars.

He catches the silhouetted form of Slade standing up in his cell, sole eye glittering in the dark. He's surrounded in a tank full of sharks and only now have they just started to smell Jason's blood in the water. It won't be long before they rip him to shreds. He has to get out of here now.

There's nothing else he can do.

* * *

Jason gets lost on the way to the cafeteria the next morning.

He takes a left then a right instead of a left, left and slips through the door that reads "Security." A simple accident.

Roland doesn't even look away from the monitors; he knows Jason was coming the moment he took the first left. "I can get you the transfer papers."

Jason nods. "What do you want in return?" It's not money, never money. Roland has more than he knows what to do with. His brother, Mark, made a fortune producing chemicals before he died and willed it to his brother. The only reason Roland works at Blackgate is for the endless line of boys and young men inside.

"An hour with your cellmate," Roland turns around in his chair, perfectly polite with his hands folded in his lap. He looks like a man wearing a child's Halloween costume, nearly bursting out of the seams.

Dick will hate him for this. Jason knows he would in the same position. As far as Jason's concerned they don't have that kind of luxury anymore. If Jason needs to barter Dick for their only chance at escape from Blackgate he'll do it. They can't wait for Roy to establish a line of communication through Stonegate. Jason won't last the month like this. Not with Napier as his neighbor and Slade waiting to probe at his weaknesses

Jason nods. "Okay."

Roland raises an eyebrow like he expected there to be more of a fight. A week ago Jason would have torn out Roland's throat with his teeth for even thinking of asking that. Now? Jason can only be relieved at how simple it is.

"Just get those papers filed by tonight," Jason stresses. "I want that transfer to go through in the next week."

Roland tilts his head and smiles. "Of course."

* * *

Dick knows something's wrong, has been wrong since Bolton took over as warden. He ignored it. Put it on the backburner in his mind and focused on immediate things like solitary confinement and fever dreams. But Jason's stopped sleeping and is pulling away from Dick and the remnants of his old gang. The men are starting to talk.

Slade’s warning from a month ago suddenly flares to life in the back of his skull. Dick doesn’t have a knife and Jason’s hardly ever stepped out of his cell since Roy's departure. Jason chokes on fury every time Dick attempts to ask just who their new neighbor is.

Dick’s not that stupid. He knows the man is bad news, especially with the way he smiles. Even Antonio Dorrance, with his massive size and impressive criminal record, flinches away when Napier reaches for him. He knows that whatever history Jason shares with him is violent and bloody and prevents Jason from sleeping at night. The bags underneath Jason’s eyes are near permanent marks by now.

Jason’s exhausted himself paying attention to the way Napier flits between tables like a moth. Hackles rising whenever Jack gets a little too close. His attention has become obsessive. The other Red Hoods take notice and the Falcone family has been raking in the men who pledge their loyalty to those who are _in control_. Jason is not. Dick’s starting to worry.

He hasn’t forgotten his first month inside Blackgate. It took weeks for all of the pen-marked tallies from every assault attempt to wash off. He doesn’t want to start counting the successful ones. He needs to get insurance, something to keep the hungry bottom-feeders at bay. Thankfully, he doesn't have to look too hard for a solution.

Dick knows that Victor Zsasz has a collection of prison-made knives in his cell that he fawns and treasures above everything else. During their hour of free time in the cellblock, Dick steals away into his cell and lifts the first one he can find. Victor notices the missing one instantly and directs his anger towards everyone but Dick.

After all, why would Dick need a knife when Jason owns him?

Slade catches him on the way back up the stairs, cutting him off on the steps and leaning him back against the railing.

“Don’t let anyone know you have that, keep it with you at all times, Grayson.” Slade assesses him after a moment and, curiously gentle, tucks a strand of hair behind Dick’s ear. “When you realize you made the wrong choice by going to Jason, my door is always open.”

Dick presses his back uncomfortably into the bars. “Jason offered me a way to escape, you gave me nothing.”

“Jason is a desperate boy who will do anything he needs to do to get what he wants,” Slade moves closer and Dick turns his head to the side, shivering as warm breath ghosts down the line of his neck. “He’d wrap you up in a bow and give you to Napier if it meant a ticket out of here.”

“And you are so much better?” Dick narrows his eyes. Slade's throat rumbles with a low chuckle, his warm lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“No, then again I’m not trying to barter my way to escape, I only want one thing.” A hand rests on his hip. Dick pushes him back and Slade goes easily. “Think about it.”

Slade walks back down the stairs, leaving Dick alone in a sea of hungry, leering eyes.

In the end, Jason does sell him, just like Slade said he would. He was just wrong about the person.

Dick’s relaxing in their cell, Jason chewing at the skin around his fingers. Dick wants to laugh. Seeing a tattooed criminal like Jason chewing at his fingers like a bored toddler. But he doesn’t. He knows how easily Jason can turn his anxious energy into physical violence. And with how little he’s touched Dick since Napier moved in Dick would assume a beating would be more likely than getting fucked.

“Open 52!”

Dick sits up in bed to see Cobblepot, waving his baton around his finger in the entrance. He motions to Dick. “Grayson, up, your on janitorial duty in the administrative wing.”

Dick slips off the bed. “I don’t think I was on that labor rotation, Oz.”

Cobblepot colors at the nickname. “Well, now you are. Worried about getting your hands dirty, pretty boy?”

“My hands are plenty dirty, boss, why do you think I’m in Blackgate?” Dick steps out of the cell.

Cobblepot shoves him with his baton. “Get moving.”

He’s actually a little glad for the respite from his cell. More time for Jason to cool off and hopefully go back to being a semblance of a normal human. He gets his bucket and mop from the work closet and starts mopping. After fifteen minutes Cobblepot is called away because of an incident in the cafeteria leaving Dick alone in the administrative hall.

For one moment he thinks about finding Bolton’s office and arranging the transfer papers for Jason. Then he remembers his week in solitary and the resulting sickness and decides against it. They'll just have to hold out for Roy to get them out.

+

He doesn’t even hear the footsteps behind him. A hand the size a fucking world encyclopedia slaps against his mouth and another wraps around his waist hauling him up. He struggles immediately, biting down on the hand and using the mop handle to beat the arms of whoever is holding him. They lift him up with ease, carrying a few feet into the nearby empty staff room and pitches him forward. Dick scrambles around, holding the mop in front of him to see a mountain of a man locking the door behind them.

“I’m sorry,” the mountain says. “I would have liked to wait longer to ease you inside but I don’t know how long Cobblepot will be gone.” He assesses Dick with a lecherous and critical eye. “You’re a lot prettier in person.”

 _He’s really starting to get tired about hearing how pretty he is_. “Who are you?”

“No one important,” the man says and starts unbuckling his suit. “Go on and get undressed, we only have a little bit of time.”

“Are you insane?” The man must be there’s no other explanation for his sudden appearance and demand for Dick to strip.

The man stops and raises an eyebrow. “If you’re going to put up a fuss than I can go back to my room and you can tell Jason that he won’t get the transfer he wanted.”

Dick frowns. “Excuse me?”

The man looks like he’s beginning to tire of Dick’s stupidity and sighs to himself. “At least you have your looks. An hour with me in exchange for Jason and your transfer out of Blackgate, if you refuse you can try and ask Bolton to file the papers for you. That will go over well I’m sure.”

Dick throat clenches tightly on itself. _Jason sold him? Like a fucking toy to be passed around?_

The man considers and then says. “Or you can refuse and I still get what I want but I don’t file your papers. I don’t often get chances like this.”

Dick glances at the sheer size of him and the back of the room. He swallows thickly and drops the mop to the ground. The man smiles and nods.

“Good choice.”

“What,” the words are too thick in Dick’s mouth. He has to take in a breath and ask again. “What’s your name?”

“Roland,” he smiles and finishes unbuttoning his shirt. “Now get undressed.”

“What no foreplay?” Dick jokes against the lump in his throat.

Roland huffs and marches up to Dick’s side, thumping his feet against the ground. He hauls Dick up onto the table, stepping between his spread open thighs. Dick nearly has to do the splits to accommodate him. The realization makes him feel faint.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Dick says quickly. He can’t imagine the size of it, especially if it’s proportional to Roland’s unnaturally huge size. “I can suck you.”

“Maybe this coy act works for everyone else, but not me,” Roland says, pulling off Dick’s shirt. “I’m risking my job for you and your boyfriend, the least you can do is return the favor.”

_But I never agreed to this!_

Dick takes a steadying breath and decides. Fuck this, he’ll find some other way to get Jason out of Blackgate if he’s that desperate but he's not about to let himself be rented out like some cheap whore. He leans back further on the table and winces at the sudden stabbing feeling of Victor’s knife digging into his hip. He pushes Roland back and nods.

“Okay, okay, I will just give me a second. Please.”

Roland doesn’t look happy but he takes a step back to untuck his own undershirt. Dick reaches into the back of his pants and pulls the knife free. He leaps and plunges the knife deep into Roland’s shoulder and then back out. A line of hot blood splashes across Dick's bare chest.

Roland yells, flinging a hand up to grab at his wound. Free of his hands Dick darts off the table and launches himself towards the door. A hand catches the back of his pants and drags him to the floor. Dick swipes up with the blade and slashes it across Roland’s cheek. Clutching the knife tightly he sinks it into the arm that tries to hold his own hand down. Roland cracks a fist down on his head.

Dick goes down fighting and bloody. Roland manages to get the knife away from him. Dick makes up for the loss using his feet. Roland retaliates by heaving him off the floor and throwing him into the wall. Stunned, Dick scrambles to his feet and gets a foot directly to the gut in response. He sucks in a breath but his lungs contract and shriek from the kick. He coughs and groans.

“ _Bitch_.” Roland towers above him with the fury and power of an avalanche.

White flashes across his eyes as Roland slams one of his enormous fists into his face. He does it again. His jaw aches. Dick raises his hands to defend himself but Roland pushes them away like he’s nothing but a weak child. A hand then another wrap tightly around his throat and squeeze. Dick scratches at the hands around his neck. Suddenly, he’s a fish in the bottom of a boat, trying to wrench himself free of Roland’s grasp. Black creeps along the edge of his vision. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.

The hands disappear and Dick turns to the side, heaving in lungfuls of air. Roland pushes him onto his stomach and yanks down his pants. Dick digs his fingers into the carpet and drags himself forward. He has to move, he has to get away, but Roland’s there grabbing his legs and pulling him back.

“No, _no no no no no no no no_ ,” Dick moans into the floor as Roland pulls his hips flush back against him. There’s a twitch and Dick’s blood turns to ice. He can only mumble in disbelief. “That won’t fit.”

“It will,” Roland says and pushes a wide thumb into him. Dick bites his lip hard enough to bloody it.

“N-Need lube, I can’t take it without,” Dick says, panicked. There’s a moment of quiet then Roland hawks a glob of spit into the crack of his ass. He uses his thumb to push it inside.

“There, demanding aren’t you princess?”

Dick buries his face into the carpet. Roland is as decent as finger-fucking as a child with a crayon. He doesn’t wait for Dick to adjust before pushing a second finger inside, jabbing it up to the knuckle. It’s all Dick can do to force himself to breathe calmly through his nose and try to ignore the rising dread that clings to the back of his throat. He's not going to be able to get away. No one's coming to save him, no one knows he's in here. The reminder that Jason arranged for this to happen has bitter, rage-fueled tears stinging in the corners of his eyes.

Roland marvels over the firmness of his ass. Spanking him a few times to get Dick to cry and mewl pathetically into the floor.

Roland doesn’t bother reaching around to jerk him off. For that Dick’s grateful. He doesn’t think he’s been less turned on in his entire life.

Roland withdraws his hands and then Dick feels the head of that, that _thing_ Roland calls a cock pressing against his fluttering hole. Dick jumps back but Roland grabs his hips and pulls him back.

He presses in and Dick can’t even scream.

It’s excruciating. Being fucked with a telephone pole would be easier as Roland drives his baseball bat of a cock inside of him. Dick wheezes, light-headed and frantic to escape the shock before it turns into full-on sharp pain. The space is full of distressing whimpering sobs and Dick realizes, dazedly, that it’s him making the noises.

“Fuck you're tight,” Roland says, rubbing a hand up and down the arch of Dick’s spine. _That’s because no one’s ever tried to stuff a 2 x 4 up there!_

Dick’s face is soaked with tears he doesn’t even remember shedding. Drool dribbles past his lips pathetically and it’s all he can do to not start screaming at the top of his lungs. Something tears inside him and Roland thrusts in easier, slicked with something hot. Dick can still feel Roland's cock twitch so he guesses it's blood.

_Is this really happening to me?_

It must be. Dick can hardly imagine why he’d even fantasize about such a thing.

Roland presses a hand against his stomach and Dick thinks frantically that he can feel Roland and his unnaturally big cock press out against the skin of his belly. Fuck. His entire insides must be a mess from Roland. Dazedly, Dick wonders of Roland's ugly prick is in the Guinness book of world records for size and girth. _You're disassociating,_ some logical part in the back of his mind answers. Good. So long as he doesn't have to face the reality of what's happening to him.

When Roland finally does come it's not a moment too soon. He digs his fingers cruelly into Dick's skin and fills him up with a gush of heat. _Get out, get out of me._

Roland does with a satisfied sigh, chuckling lightly. A hand rubs against his gaping hole.

“This is a good look for you, stretched out like this with my cum leaking out of you.”

 _That makes one of us._ Dick keeps his mouth shut, gritting his teeth as he slowly pushes himself up and off the floor.

“Tell you what sweetling,” Roland says, drawing a finger through the trail of cum and smearing it across Dick’s back. “I’ll let Jason’s transfer go through, but not yours. Your case may need some revision.”

Dick doesn’t even have the energy to be angry. He’s a blank slate devoid of humiliation and righteous fury, lying there leaking blood and cum onto the floor. God, if his parents saw him now.

-

Roland redresses him and leaves him in the hallway for Cobblepot to find. For the first time since arriving at Blackgate Oswald actually looks at him heavy with pity. Dick hates him for it.

He can barely make the walk back, leaning on Oswald for support the whole way.

Jason at least affords him the dignity to look slightly guilty.

“I did it to get us out of here.”

“No,” Dick’s voice is barely there. No more than a rough wheeze. “You did it to get yourself out.”

Jason doesn’t correct him.

Dick cries to himself that night, curled him in an all-encompassing haze of pain. He's finally gone beyond rock bottom.

* * *

Grayson comes to him two days after his one-on-one with Roland. He’s still not walking right, leaning heavily against the cell bars as he looks at Slade with barely a scrap of prideful defiance left.

“Ok,” his voice is still a hoarse whisper. “Ok, you win.”

Slade stands up from the cot and walks over to him, taking in the dark ring of bruises on his neck and the fingerprints on his wrists. He can only imagine what he must look like underneath all of it. He takes Grayson’s— _Dick’s_ —chin in his hand and tilts his head back.

“It was never about winning,” Slade wraps another arm around his waist and pulls him deeper into the cell. “Or at least against you anyway.”

Dick scoffs but doesn’t try to resist when Slade leads him over to the cot. It’s only after they sit down and Slade starts to push him to lay back that Dick stiffens.

“No-I,” Dick bites his lip, cheeks turning a light pink. “Not yet, I can’t.”

“I didn’t expect you to today,” or even a later week for that matter. Slade can only assume what kind of damage an idiot like Roland could do in the confines of an hour. “But I’ll have you in some way, Grayson. Think of it as signing a contract.”

Dick huffs. “Some contract,” but he fully lies down, wincing lightly. Slade pushes a hand past the band of his pants and boxers, gripping the base of his limp prick firmly. Dick sucks in a sharp breath and then lets it go with a shaky laugh.

“I don’t think this follows the rules with how to properly treat a rape victim.”

“Nothing about me is proper,” Slade hums and pulls Dick halfway into his lap as he continues to stroke and tug. Slade nips at the spot of skin beneath Dick’s ear. Slade smirks against his throat as Dick moans softly, cock beginning to twitch in interest.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry about what happened with Roland,” Slade thumbs the slit of his dick, his other hand pushing up along Dick’s shirt to press down against his belly. Dick’s breathing stutters. “Had I known what Jason was planning to do I’d have stepped in.”

He wouldn’t have. Dick needed to learn how wrong the choice he made between the two of them was. Who better than to effectively teach that lesson than Roland?

Dick doesn’t seem to believe it either, reaching back with a hand to pull at Slade’s hair. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Fair,” Slade trails his free hand further up Dick’s shirt until his thumb brushes against a nipple.

“ _A-ah_ ,” Dick arches his back lightly into the touch. “You’re hardly the one to talk about being fair.”

“Not that it matters in here. Why should I be when no one else is? Jason made sure he’d get you by turning the entire prison against you.” Slade pauses to suck at one of the dark bruises beneath his teeth. Dick makes a broken little mewling sound and Slade presses his teeth down harder, pinning him in place when he tries to scramble away.

“Slade, _Slade_ , oh god,” Dick fucks up into his hand desperately. Slade pulls away and pinches the nipple sharply. Dick cries out.

“Jason played the game a lot better than I thought he would at the beginning. Dangling the hope of escape in front of you like a carrot on a stick,” Slade slides a hand down his back and beneath his clothes. “I would have moved in faster, but I knew how the game between us was going to end anyway. So I let him think he won.”

Dick jolts and panic creeps into his voice. “Slade, please, don’t-“

Slade hushes him. “I told you I wouldn’t do anything you couldn’t handle. I just want to see the damage I have to work with. It would have been so much easier if you came to me earlier, but here we are.”

Dick pants harshly in his grasp as Slade slides his finger over the tender, hot skin. Frantic little gasps slip past his lips until Dick turns his head and buries his face into Slade’s neck. Slade circles a finger around the still loose hole, alternating between rubbing and pushing down slightly.

“I can’t, I can’t, Slade, Slade, pleasepleaseplease _oh my god_ ,” Dick thrusts up in his hand as Slade slips one finger inside.

“You can take one finger, Grayson,” Slade chides. He circles it around, seeking that little spot until Dick jerks abruptly in his lap. “There you go.”

Slade crooks his finger and rubs against that bundle of nerves relentlessly while Dick squirms and pleads and begs in his lap. He's missed Dick’s little sounds even if he stewed in bitter jealousy while Jason had him. What he’d give to hear him scream while Roland had him. He shoves another finger inside and Dick _wails_.

It takes a few more pumps with his hand but Dick comes apart with a drawn-out whine, only able to twitch and grip the bed with white-knuckled fists like he’s about to be blown away. Slade milks him through it, murmuring assurances into his ear. “ _That’s it, that’s it_.”

Slade pulls his hands away and wipes the mess off on Dick’s already ruined pants, pulling him to sit between his legs, resting back against his chest. Dick passes out for a minute, silently slowing his breathing as he joins the land of the living with a groan.

Loose-limbed and tired with fleeting arousal Dick awkwardly reaches back to try and grab Slade’s erection. Slade pushes him away.

“What? You don’t want me to get you off?”

“Not yet,” Slade smooths a hand down his shirt. “Not today.” He flicks his eyes towards Jason’s cell then back to Dick. No matter how pretty Dick is, and the boy is _very_ pretty, Slade wants his first one to be a lot more memorable. He wants the boy who told him no.

Dick frowns but doesn’t argue, closing his eyes. “If you don’t change our cell arrangement Jason will still be able to do what he wants.”

Slade laughs. “Is that your biggest concern? I’ll have Bolton change the arrangement tonight.”

“As if Bolton would listen to you.”

"He will," Slade assures him. Dick furrows his brows.

"Why?"

 _That’s because the money Bolton got to bribe the guards with away from the Red Hoods came from me_. “You’d be surprised.”

* * *

That night Bolton re-arranges the cell order. He says it’s because of the influx of complaints that some prisoners get their own cells while others have to share. So he partners them up. Dick, in the new order, finds himself sharing Slade’s new cell, an older four-man cell at the far end of the block.

Jason gets a new cellmate. Jack Napier.

Jason makes a scene, desperation rolling off him in waves. Roland has to make an appearance and force him into his cell along with Bolton when it's time for lock-up. The rest of the cell watches with vicious glee shouting obscenities and curses the entire night.

Dick spends the first night of that new cell arrangement blocking the sounds out with his pillow while Slade watches from their new penthouse.

Dick should have known that Slade also had the power to be exceptionally cruel.

* * *

Jason’s stronger than he had been when he first entered Blackgate. He had the time and the means necessary inside the prison to work on keeping himself in shape without having to worry about turf wars with other gangs in Gotham. He is responsible for sending Slade to the infirmary and holding his own against any other man that tried to take away his position with a laugh and at least a broken hand and nose.

He’s not weak, he’s never been weak.

But Jack Napier isn’t a man. Jack Napier isn’t _human_.

Maybe that’s why Jason doesn’t fight back as hard as he can. Maybe that’s why he loses whenever Jack stumbles into the cell and pins him against the wall with his bony little fingers and starts whimpering like a helpless little child when Jack presses his mouth against his ear and laughs and makes all of these promises of what he’ll do if he ever get’s his hands on a crowbar again.

He's living in a waking nightmare. The rest of the prison has turned their backs on him. Even the remnants of his old gang watch him in silent contempt at disgust. They can't believe their boss, _Jason Todd_ , is jumping at shadows.

There’s really only one thing that keeps him going. It’s the fact that this situation isn’t permanent. Soon he’ll get his transfer order and be out of Blackgate and back in Gotham. All he has to do is stay sane for a little longer.

And then it all comes crashing down.

Cobblepot comes to him a week after being saddled with Napier. He’s got the biggest shit-eating grin on his face as he holds up the transfer order Roland forged him. It’s been denied by the state.

“Looks like you’re stuck here with us,” Cobblepot tosses him the paper while Jack laughs loudly from his place on the bed.

Jack springs off the bed and wraps his arms around Jason’s waist and pulls him flush against his back. “Looks like it’s just you and me until the end of time, Jason. What a team we are.”

Jason feels like there’s a chain wrapped around his throat. He wants to fight. He wants to throw Jack off of him and squeeze his head until his eyes pop out of his skull. Then dismantle him piece by piece until he's flushing his bloody remains down the cell toilet.

But he doesn’t because he’s nothing but a weak imitation of the man he was before. So he stays frozen in Jack’s hands and closes his eyes tightly as they burn with the threat of tears.

“Wilson! Warden wants to speak with you. Open cell 32!”

Jason eyes snap open. He watches Slade step out of the cell and be led down the stairs. He swallows past the lump in his throat. There is still one more way to fix everything.

* * *

“I need to talk to you.”

Slade straightens out and wipes away some of the sweat on his forehead. He’d been sparring with Dick, who was a surprisingly confident if not creative fighter. His history in acrobatics only made their fights more fun and tiring than normal when Slade had a partner like himself. Then Jason, lost little birdie Jason, stands in front of his cell and asks for a deal.

Dick glares at Jason and goes over to the sink to wipe away the sweat, giving the two of them as much privacy their small cell can afford.

“Jason,” Slade beckons him in with a hand. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” Jason says. “Get Bolton to give me back my single cell.”

“I can’t do that. He did it to prevent prisoners from feeling like some are getting special privileges.”

“I know you’re in good favor with the warden,” Jason says. “Tell him to give me a new cell.”

Slade narrows his eye. “Now why would I do anything that indulges those bad manners of yours?”

Jason flattens his mouth. “ _Please_.”

Slade nods. “That’s better. Now, what are you willing to trade with me to get that new cell? I don’t do things for free, Jason. I’m sure you know.”

“I can pay you any amount of money you want.”

“I have all the money I need, not that it’s of much use in here,” Slade gestures to the cell.

Jason tries again. “Favors, I can have my gang carry out favors outside Blackgate.”

“I have my own men for that. Besides, you haven’t been in contact with your gang for more than two months. That’s not helpful to me.”

Jason hesitates and finally says in a low voice. “What do you want then?”

Slade eyes him with open disgust, this pathetic sack of a man who once tore out a piece of his arm in retribution. This man standing before him is not that Jason. But Slade knows how to bring him out. He won't have any other Jason than the one who nearly beat him

Slade attacks him, quick like a whip, pulling Jason into his cell and slamming him against the wall. Dick leaps further back on his bed in surprise while there’s a barrage of shouts from men standing outside the cell drawn in by the noise and promise of violence.

Slade pins Jason against the opposite wall with his fists wrapping tightly around Jason’s neck. He's not playing, he pushes against Jason’s neck the same way he’d do to the men he choked to death. Jason can either fight back or die. Either way, Slade gets what he wants.

Jason scratches at his hands, blue eyes wide in panic as he draws blood beneath frantic nails.

“Slade, what are you doing?” Dick’s voice shouts distantly behind him. Slade only presses harder and snaps when Dick tries to get close.

“Sit down and shut up, Grayson, this is between Jason and I.” Jason spits and chokes under Slade’s cruel grasp until finally, _finally_ , a spark of fiery anger lights up his blue eyes. The kick to Slade’s gut knocks the wind out of him and he stumbles back, dropping Jason to the floor. Jason wheezes and gasps, trying hard not to curl up in a ball to get his breath back. Slade laughs and shakes his hands out.

“We didn’t get to finish the first time we met,” Slade grins and lets Jason pick himself off the floor. “Finish it with me and I’ll consider giving you what you want.”

Jason snarls and launches himself at Slade.

It's almost like they never stopped their fight from all those years ago. Jason instantly tries to grapple him to the floor. Slade back steps and grabs Jason by the feet before tossing him near clear out of the cell. There's a crowd of men gathered now. They yell excitedly, grabbing Jason before he tumbles out and shoving him back inside. Jason attacks him again, moving in close with a jab to Slade's jaw.

Slade's head cracks back. Light dances across his eyes and he backhands Jason to a comfortable distance. Jason sucks in a breath and spins, foot nearly clipping Slade's neck if it weren't for the sudden protection of his forearm. The crowd rallies with the two of them, neither gaining distance over the other. Jason draws blood first when he gets close enough to bite at Slade's hand. He'd forgotten about the bastard's teeth. He licks his own blood off his hand when they separate to catch their breath. It's electrifying.

Slade takes them to the floor. He locks Jason's arm at an angle with his hands and wraps his legs around Jason's neck. Jason, fucking biter that he is, bites so hard Slade feels the fibers of his pants shoved into the bite wound. He lets go and Jason hooks his feet around his waist and his arms around Slade's neck. Slade laughs and wheezes at the pressure before cracking his head back.

Jason goes with a yelp and the audience roars.

Slade stops playing with him then.

It's over before it really begins. Jason is weak from days staying up late and a sensitive stomach from frightful nerves. Slade, on the other hand, is well rested and in the same condition, he's always had. The only reason it lasts as long as it does is because Slade wills it.

He pins Jason to the floor. One hand on the back of his neck while the weight of his body holds him stuck to the concrete. Jason scrambles to get his hands on either the side to push himself up but Slade bats them away. The men at the edge of the cell shout and jeer, shaking the bars.

Slade leans down and whispers into Jason's ear. "Submit, boy."

Jason tenses and squirms frantically beneath Slade in one final effort. He bucks and writhes and digs his fingers bloody into the floor, trying to pull himself free. Slade lets him do it because he wants to drive home how helpless Jason is. Then he grabs Jason's hands and holds him immobile to the ground. Slade squeezes the back of his neck hard enough to elicit a gasp.

" _Submit, Jason_."

Jason buries his face into the ground. For a moment Slade thinks he's going to have to knock some more sense into him but then Jason goes limp. The audience and the entire prison go silent.

Jason's reign at the top is over. Now the only one left is Slade.

* * *

Jason can hear his heart pounding in his ears.

He is in a world of nothing but silence, made up of only himself and the warmth of Slade's body behind him. If he tries hard enough he can pretend he doesn't feel the dozens of eyes on his back. He can pretend that he is alone in a dark sleep without the world beyond what is happening here and now.

Then Slade releases his neck and trails it down the length of his spine and down the back of his pants and the world is thrust into being again.

He can smell Slade's sweat, overpowering and thick in his nose. The contented hum in Slade's chest that rumbles into Jason's own. Muttering and excited whispering as the audience who hasn't left yet watches, delighted, at the sudden change in atmosphere. He breathes in quickly through his nose and presses his feverish forehead to the cool ground.

"Big bad boss of the Red Hoods is shy," someone says faintly and it breaks open a dam.

"Fuck, why does Slade get all the fucking luck."

"What are the rest of us supposed to get as entertainment? Fucking Nygma?"

"At least the two of them are sexy when they whine."

"There goes my chance, at least Jason knew how to share."

Jason buries his face in his arms. His cheeks are hot, hell is whole body is with embarrassment. He knows Slade is a lot more private than he ever was about his conquests. The fact that he's taking Jason now in front of half of the block? It's punishment for avoiding him so long.

Slade's dry finger slips down the middle of his ass, pressing roughly inside. Jason hisses at the feeling, squirming until Slade holds him down harder.

"You deserve this," Slade nips at his neck. "It would have been easy if you just said yes the first time."

"You don't tell me what to do," Jason hisses.

"Yeah, well now I own you so I think I can."

"Get some slick or spit damn you," Jason groans as Slade's finger presses in deeper, crooking it slightly.

Jason's never bottomed. He hates it. Hates the vulnerable feeling and being nearly completely at the mercy of someone else. Hates the power dynamics of it, especially when it includes someone like Slade. The insults of the crowd pound against the already throbbing ache in his head. He wishes he was anywhere else or anyone else.

"Here," Dick suddenly says from right above the two of them. Jason glances up and sees Dick offering Slade a small bottle of lube, a cool look on his face. They haven't spoken to each other since Dick came back to the cell after Roland.

"Dick," Jason starts then Slade presses up hard inside him. "A-Ah! Slade _fuckkk, mm-aahh_."

"There it is," Slade purrs. The pop of a cap opening, Jason buries his face in the crook of his arm, but Dick pulls his face up by the hair. No one is letting him hide from this. Everyone needs to learn about Jason's failure, even himself.

"Listen to him whine," someone says.

"Shit why hasn't anyone tried this before."

Dick only raises an eyebrow and goes back to his mattress, spreading his thighs and openly palming himself. "Fair is fair, Jason." Dick tilts his head and grins dark and devious, his eyes near black with lust.

"Shit," Jason gasps into the floor when he feels the coolness of the lube smear against his ass before slipping inside.

"Be grateful he's not as mean as I am Jason," Slade drags his fingers torturously slow. In, pause, out, pause, in, pause, out. "Because the only thing you'd get from me was spit if you begged nice enough."

"Y-You're a lot of talk," Jason groans and arches his back when Slade scrapes a nail against his prostate. Sparks shoot all the way to the tips of his toes.

"I always make good on my promises," Slade starts scissoring his fingers and Jason begins to sweat. "Don't I?"

Maybe it lasts an hour or just a few minutes, but Slade fucks him with his fingers alternating between long, deep thrusts to spreading his hand wide to stretch him out. By the time he adds a third Jason is mumbling incoherently into the ground, tears starting to sting in the corners of his eyes. Most of their audience has left, filtering back to their cells once the fight ended. But a group remains, obvious in their arousal.

Jason ignores them easily, but he can't shake the piercing blue eyes of Dick who works himself in time with Slade's hand. He's like a butterfly pinned to a card, completely at their mercy. He hasn't felt like this in years, hasn't wanted to. But by the way his cock starts to stiffen halfway through Slade's attention to stimulating his prostate part of him must.

Slade pulls his hands free and Jason whines, turning his head to look back at Slade. He pours a decent amount of lube into his hand and slicks up his cock, something Jason never tried to look at before but can't seem to stop staring now. Shit how is that thing going to fit inside?

"The more you try to fight it the more it's going to hurt," Slade says, sensing his discomfort. "Just lie there and bear down."

"Easy for you to say," Jason snaps. "You're not the one getting fucked by that thing."

"I was your age once," Slade lines up and bumps the head lightly against his stretched hole. "And be lucky that I'm not the man who taught me. You wouldn't be able to lie down properly, boy."

Jason blinks, stunned stupid at the thought Slade would ever let anyone have him like _this_ when he pushes just the tip inside and Jason nearly howls.

"Virgins," Slade rolls his eyes. "Dramatics."

"F-Fuck you, _o-ohhh, Slade,_ Slade wait, let me," Jason's arms have been free for a long time. He tries to push himself up frantically and he can't seem to get underneath himself properly. " _G-God_ , fuck, fuck, _shit-ah_."

Slade waits a minute, halfway inside, and Jason panics. Slade's going to fucking rip him apart. He swings a hand back to try and grab something but Slade pushes him down on his back and pulls nearly all the way out before settling between Jason's open legs.

"Wrap your legs around my waist, Jason," Slade demands. Jason does, anything else to ease the painful searing in his ass. Jason scratches the cell floor with bloodied nails and Slade huffs a breath before lifting them up and wrapping them around his shoulders. Jason wants to laugh at how fucking _intimate_ their position is. Like they're fucking _lovers_.

Then Slade pushes all the way in and Jason cries.

It's not an exaggeration. Tears gathering in the corner of his eyes, slip free and then they can't seem to stop. He digs grooves into Slade's shoulders, whining pitifully on every deep thrust that rocks them forward and back. His back stings from the burn against the concrete. It's too much and it's everything at once. He can't seem to hold on.

Hands cradle his face and lift his head onto a warm thigh.

"Jay," Dick says, voice sex-rough, "little wing look at me."

Jason does. Dick peers down at him with a serene smile and pushes Jason's head towards the leaking head of his cock. Jason opens his mouth and takes it in, grateful. Distantly, he hears the shameless squelching every time Slade rocks into him. He shudders deeply and swallows in more of Dick, eager to drown out the sounds with his sloppy sucking. Dropping one hand from Slade's shoulders he wraps it around his rock-hard prick and strokes it quickly.

Slade snarls and pulls his hand away. "You come only from me or not at all."

Jason groans and buries his face into Dick's crotch.

Dick finishes first with a shudder and a soft _ah, ah, ah,_ down the back of his throat. Jason has no choice but swallow. It's easier than he thought it'd be, liking the musky taste of Dick. Shit, maybe he has a thing. He'll think about that later when his head is less fuzzy. Slade pushes Dick away when he's done, pulling Jason up off the floor and onto him so he can bounce Jason in his lap.

"I could get used to seeing you like this," Slade pants, thrusts growing more erratic as he comes closer to his edge. "Thinking you're tough shit because you're covered in all your tattoos, lying on your back taking my cock."

Any other time Jason would scoff or punch Slade in his smug jaw. But now? Now he tilts his head back and moans so loud it'd make a porn star blush and comes just like Slade said he would. On nothing but his cock, warm ropes of cum painting both of their stomachs. Slade leans forward and sinks his teeth hard into Jason's right bicep and ends up taking a bit with him when he pulls back, mouth bloody.

Jason howls, body clenching in pain and Slade comes, rocking him through a haze of equal parts pain and pleasure.

Slade smiles at him with bloody teeth. "Now we match."

No one blames him when he passes out on Slade's lap.

* * *

"I don't like being wrong."

That doesn't surprise Slade, Roman doesn't seem like the type to like being anything that contradicts his inflated ego. Still, he smiles because he likes hearing Roman admit that he's right.

"What were you wrong about this time?"

Roman fixes him with a cool glare or the best he can manage behind that ridiculous leather mask of his. He stubs out the butt of his cigarette in the provided ashtray.

"About you having bad business sense. I didn't think endorsing Lyle Bolton was a good idea. He was too much of a hard ass."

Slade remembers Lyle from his days in the military. He was young with a chip on his shoulder that made him hard to deal with before boot camp whipped him into appropriate shape. It was easy to write Bolton a letter appealing to his ideals--especially on felony inmates--to get him to apply for the now vacant position as Blackgate warden. And with his impressive military resume, no one was going to deny him.

"How did you get the rest of the staff to work for Bolton?" Roman leans closer to the glass separating the two of them. "Bolton hardly has the money or the morals to keep them happy with bribes."

Slade tilts his head. "Unless he had a very, very generous private donor who was eager to put Blackgate back to rights. Of course, they want to stay anonymous so they do it through a third party, an offshore account with over five million dollars."

"You son of a bitch," Roman laughs. "You've been charging me an arm and a leg for information just to give it back out in bribes? You could have retired a rich man on a beach in the Caribbean with a different beauty a day on your arm. Why stay here in this shithole?"

"Because I'm powerful in here," Slade says. More powerful than he'd ever be running from the law on the outside, having to up and leave whenever a job goes wrong. Because he owns the rights and lives of the two most sought-after men inside of Blackgate. Because Bolton owes his dream of an ideal Blackgate to Slade's wealth helping him buy the Blackgate staff's loyalty from the Red Hoods. Slade's untouchable, there's no reason to leave.

Until he gets bored maybe, but for now he'll enjoy his retirement for however long it lasts.

"You know I've been thinking you owe me some sort of thank you," Roman says. "All of this wouldn't have been possible without my money."

Of course, it would have been. If Roman said no Slade would have kept going until he found someone who said yes. He doesn't say that though. He just dips his head in agreement. "Right. What were you thinking?"

"I want an evening with one of your boys. You go on about them so much I think I'd want to try one for myself, see what all the fuss is about," Roman says, casual. Indifferent. Slade can see the way his shoulders tense, ready to fight if he says no. Slade considers this. He promised Dick he wouldn't get the same treatment under him that he got with Jason. He doesn't want a repeat of Dick's anger after Roland took him.

"Well Dick is still a little rough from-"

"I can get a pretty boy on my cock in an hour driving down Crime Alley," Roman cuts him off. "I want the big bitch, Jason. The one whose gang has been giving me trouble."

"Well then," Slade smiles. "I don't think that will be any trouble at all."

Fair's fair right?


	3. Jackrabbit Parole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade is in charge of Blackgate, tits to toes and Jason isn't ready to bow down to a new master. Too bad he's lost his only ally in Blackgate, Dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A small thing," I said. "This was supposed to be a small one-shot thing to get it out of my system." What a fool I was. Hope everyone enjoyed this insanely dark, plotless, gratuitous monster. Join me next time for an actual, long, plot-driven prison fic with twists and turns everyone sees coming.
> 
> WARNING: Referenced suicide, major, multiple scenarios of non-con and graphic violence. Marked with a (+/+) to avoid
> 
> Art was done by the incredible, amazing, talented, beautiful Callipygianflamingo

Blackgate in the weeks that follow Jason's removal from power finally, if not begrudgingly, settles into its new hierarchy. The staff forgoes any and all previous alignments and connections to gangs that paid their way into their pockets. Kept happy with Bolton's salary raises and fearful of his violent demeanor there is no reason for them to help their old employers. Not that money would aid Jason anyway. Most of the Red Hoods have already been sent off to Stonegate or Gotham's Men's Correctional Facility to serve their various drug sentences. The remaining Hoods, Clay Payne, Garfield Lynns, and Nathan Prince, regard Jason with open disgust. Garfield, the most extreme in his dedication that, at times, delved into absolute zealotry reacts exceptionally poorly. Going as far as to hold the tattooed portion of his chest against the dangerous heated pipes in the back of Blackgate's onsite factory.

According to Clay who heard it from Armstrong who heard it from Kynazev when Dr. Elliot told Garfield, there was nothing he could do to save the tattoo Garfield said: "that's good.” They left him unrestrained because any normal person would be in too much pain from having their chest nearly melted through to move. Garfield has always loved proving people wrong. When he was alone, he doused himself with alcohol from the locked cabinet—a simple glass door that was easy to break into—and lit himself and, by extension, hospital room on fire. Dr. Elliot was right. When the fire crew finally found his over-fried corpse hidden beneath an ashy blanket they could barely make out the curves of his face.

The rest are soon to follow. Clay gets locked in solitary, for his own safety, after Napier takes a shine to his "hideous face" and plays plastic surgeon. Clay, who was certainly nothing to write home about before, goes from looking like a man to having bulbous, drooping lumps on his face from instant-cement "silicone" injections. He can't see past the puffy lids of his eyes and can only drink food through a straw. Everyone and their mother knows Jack did it. Clay says nothing and neither does Jack. Bolton has no tapes to prove otherwise so Jack stays in general pop while the state sees getting Clay to a minimum-security hospital. The only good thing about it is Clay is now the star attraction of the medical community.

It's worse for Nathan, who's Blackgate handsome with a serpent's flexibility and grace. Jason's off-limits and the Red Hoods have done a lot of bad, bad things to stay in power. Nathan is the only one left and unlike Garfield, he's too much of a coward to end his own life. His fate is sealed. It takes less than a day after Napier's attack on Clay. Nathan's alone in an ocean of blood-starving sharks and they zero in on him the moment lights go out. Even he can't keep his screams in forever.

The men pass him around like a community toy. Force him to tie his already short hair up in little pigtails and smudge red paint on his lips. They only call him Natalie and beat him when he corrects them. Bolton starts saying it and soon the entire facility is. Dick knew things in Blackgate were bad, but he didn't know he could be denied something as simple as his own name.

Nathan's treatment makes Dick stay closer to Slade, child-like in an all-consuming fear to avoid becoming the center of Blackgate's attention again. Slade assures him that wouldn't happen. The men want to possess and own him the same way Slade does and Jason did, private and kept close on a short leash and collar. They would have him as their catamite, never the common whore.

"Jason," Slade continued that evening when Dick couldn't drift off from Nathan's distressed wailing, "that's an entirely different story. They wouldn't even bother re-naming him.”

Dick glanced over to the floor where Jason spent the last week sleeping. Unyielding, rough, overly rebellious Jason whom Slade had fucked in front of everyone and barely regarded since. It's hardly fair. Dick, over the last week, only stews in bitter and vile spite, angry Slade still makes use of him every night but Jason is allowed to wallow on the cold floor. Whether Slade fucks Jason or not doesn't seem to matter to the rest of the men. They give him a wide berth, only making crude gestures at his back when he's gone.

There is a moment where Dick realizes that he's waiting for the rest of the Blackgate men to attack Jason the same way they did to him. The same way Roland did in, one of the few, darkest hours of his life. The thought repulses him in its sincerity and he spends the day he thinks about it with a nauseous and vindictive stomach. He stops waiting to see what Jason's next move is, what the prison plans on doing, and focuses on his own survival. It’s a path that’s now closed to him anyways. Whatever partnership he had with Jason was over the moment found his own survival a higher priority than Dick’s.

Slade is, to his surprise, a rather simple master.

Dick frowns in distaste. There is no better word no matter how much he wishes there was. He is not Slade's partner. He doubts Slade sees him as anything above a plaything to keep his boredom at bay. The Ganymede to Slade's all-powerful Zeus. It’s a testament to Dick's never-ending free fall. No net waiting at the bottom to keep him safe.

Slade only wants one thing from him, complete and utter obedience. Slade doesn't tolerate backtalk, a lesson Dick learns quickly. There are no beatings. Slade doesn't have to throw his weight around to prove how far superior he is to Dick. He learns his lesson the moment he tells Slade to learn how to suck himself. Dick’s jaw is still sore from a punch Slade landed on him that morning and he wants, no, he deserves a break. It happens with three quick jabs: one to the crook of his elbow, the side of his neck and the back of his head where his skull meets his spine. When Dick can finally move and breathe again, Slade's crouches over him, indifferent to his forced wheezing.

"Never deny me again." So Dick doesn't. Jason watches from his claimed corner in the back of the cell and Dick, at that moment, hates him terribly.

After a week Dick finally notices through the acidic haze that clouds his mind whenever he eyes Jason that the man--or boy rather--has been nearly catatonic since his humiliation. He doesn't speak, doesn't rise to provocation when some of the inmates, Nygma in particular, shout degrading names at Jason during lunch and rec. Jason sits, more often than not, alone in the back of cafeteria staring at nothing. His vibrant eyes now dull and murky, lost in the back of his own mind. It terrifies Dick.

Slade doesn't approach him. Does nothing, pretends Jason doesn't exist. Nothing more than a ghost in their cell. But when Dick manages to smother the fiery coals of his anger with cool sympathy and try to reach out to Jason, Slade yanks him away.

"Don't talk to him, don't look at him," Slade says. There is no room for disagreement. It's an order. Dick swallows and glances over Slade's shoulder where Jason stares blankly at the food on his table.

"He needs help," but Dick doesn't resist when Slade drags him away.

"He needs to adjust. Why do you think I've been waiting so long to do what I have every right to? The lights are on, but no one's home. The owner will come back eventually.”

"And what if he doesn't?" Dick can't imagine living for the next ten to fifteen years with only Slade for conversation and Jason a mute statue. Dick will adapt certainly, he's always been flexible, but he doesn't want to have to learn.

Slade doesn't care. "Then he doesn’t."

Dick remembers a few months ago—and that now seems like years—when Jason attentively and carefully cared for him in the midst of his fever. Gently slipping him mouthfuls of water and soup. Carefully prompting him out of bed to move around enough to keep his muscles loose. He thinks about that Jason and not the one with the wild pacing who sold him to Roland for a chance at escape that would never come.

It's why, when Slade calls him to bed that night, he stops and grabs the spare blanket off the bottom bunk.

"Grayson," Slade warns but Dick walks over to Jason anyway and wraps the blanket around his stiff shoulders.

"I don't think you deserve my forgiveness. Yet, at least," Dick pulls Jason away from the wall and slips the blanket around his back. "But this is the least I can do for everything you did for me.”

When Dick wakes up the next morning, grimacing from the dull ache of Slade still stuck inside him, he catches Jason waking up, taking the blanket off and neatly refolding it onto Dick's bunk. It's enough to make him feel better.

* * *

In the end, Slade’s right. Jason doesn't stay in his catatonic-like state forever.

Two weeks after Slade made him submit in front of the entire prison, a week and a half after Garfield burned himself alive, eight days after Napier mutilated Clay, and seven days after Nathan was forced to become Natalie, Jason comes back.

To Jason, it feels like no time at all. The recollections of the days spent as a devoid and blank slate of a man are blurred and concealed by thick fog. They aren't like the jagged and sharp memories of Napier's assault that shoot through his mind, sudden as a whip-crack. They slip through his fingers like sand. No matter how hard he tries to hold onto them, floating away into places he cannot reach. The only memory he can hold onto is little more than a series of images of. Dick’s hands, a blanket, and a warmth he's missed since they started sharing a cell.

Awareness isn't an immediate thing. Jason more or less feels drugged; he misses periods of time and gets confused easily. One second he's curled up in the corner of the cell and the next under the icy spray of shower water. His body is still operating on autopilot and it takes all he can to wrestle the controls back.

Slade knows he’s back before Jason is fully aware of it himself.

Jason wakes one morning, his body aching and sore from the chill of the concrete floor with what little comfort the prison-issue blanket provides. He groans and rolls onto his back, stretching out the kinks in his spine. Dizziness and disorientation are still heavy on his head, but for once the edges seem a little clearer. He knows, partially, that it will get better the longer the day goes on. For now, he can get the blood flowing and make himself warmer and more alert. He makes to stand up. A foot lands heavy on his stomach and Jason, too shocked to yelp, wheezes at the sharp pain that punches the air from his lungs.

Slade looms over him, shadows are drawn deep across his face in the dim light of early morning, only his sole, blue eye visible. "Sleeping beauty," his voice is rough rumble partly clinging to sleep, "glad to know you're still with us.”

He lifts his foot and lowers himself to straddle Jason's waist. "It's good to see you again. Well, see you're still in there that is.”

Jason can't find the words to speak. He narrows his eyes and turns his head away, facing the corner of the room. It's the only way he can be resistant in such a state. There's a hot puff of air that brushes across the line of his jaw as Slade ducks his head and laughs quietly.

"I have my work cut out for me, don't I? I gave you space while you adjusted, let you recover in peace, but if you want to stay under my protection you have to follow my rules.”

Jason grits his teeth and stays silent. Slade grabs his chin tightly and wrenches his head back so he's forced to stare directly into Slade's burning eye.

"You want to stay safe with me? You have to work for it. You're not a prisoner here, Jason, you can go anytime you want.”

But he can't. He can't because outside of Slade's protection Napier lurks, waiting and ferociously hungry. A prisoner inside a prison, the irony isn't lost on him. Fate has been cruel to him since it stole his mother and father away, no matter how bad they were, when he was young--but not young enough to know that the world was unkind to poor little boys and girls.

Slade lets him go. Climbs back up into bed where Dick, curled up in the blankets, lies dead to the world. For a moment, Jason hates him. Hates that Dick can flit between prisoners with the neutrality of someone who's never been a part of a gang or started a family from the ground up.

Like Jason has. Like Jason did. That Dick can pick and choose where his allegiance lies, nothing more than a matter of convenience. Hates that he doesn't feel the same loss that Jason has, cut off from the only family he's ever really had in a world that despises him for what he couldn’t help. An accident born to parents who had no business raising a child.

The blanket rubs against his cheek, scratchy and coarse, but most of all warm. The hate leaves him faster than the breath Slade stomped out of him, shame cooling in its place. He looks away and down to his feet. He's the one who did this to himself, not Dick. He has to remember that. Or else he'll lose the only man in Blackgate on his side.

_If he hasn't already._

* * *

Jason's barely been "awake" for a full three hours before he invokes Slade's wrath. A starting record. Jason knows in the coming days he'll probably be able to do in less than a minute of waking up.

He can't remember what happened to the remaining Red Hoods in Blackgate after the first night he spent in Slade's cell. When he sees Garfield and Clay absent he looks for Nathan. Finds him, crawling out from under a table, lips red without the help of the lipstick smeared over his chin glistening with spit. The vitriolic wave of helplessness washes over him and curls his stomach. When he spots the man stuffing his limp cock back into his pants Jason sees bloody, vivid red.

His friends fall on Jason when he gets the man "Ragrets" Dick called him, on the floor with a broken nose. It takes all three that come to Ragrets' rescue to pull Jason off and even then they can barely hold him. One of them gets a broken nose to match. The other Jason nearly bites his finger off. He's weak from the time spent in a daze, but Jason fights as viciously as he does dirty. They don't stand a chance.

Then Slade comes over.

Slade strikes him four times along his spine. For a second Jason's certain he's been stabbed. Intense pain locks up his limbs, engulfing him in fire before disappearing in a cloud of uncomfortable static. Jason wakes on the floor, pins and needles tingling along his back and legs. His entire lower body is numb and unresponsive. His arms are nothing better than wobbling bodies of gelatin.

"Apologize," Slade demands.

As if Jason could, his tongue is too thick in his mouth. He forces his mouth to make words anyway. Just to piss his master off. "Fuck you.”

Slade nods and cocks back his fist before punching Jason across the face. It hurts. It hurts a lot. His vision blacks out and when it clears he's watching the dirty floor pass beneath him, slung over Slade's shoulder. A caveman hauling off his new wife. The rest of the men in the cafeteria watch him go, with Dick quietly keeping his head down and focused on his tray. None of the guards stop him; Cobblepot even clears the way when Slade stalks by.

He's dumped on the wet, tile floor in the showers. "You're lucky that I don't want a repeat of the last two weeks so soon. Get up.”

Jason glares up at him, baring his teeth when Slade reaches down to tug at his arm.

"You growl at me again and I'll muzzle you like the animal you're trying to be. Get up.”

With shaky and unsteady feet Jason does, just for Slade to wrap a large hand around his neck and haul him across the small, privacy divider, nearly off balance.

"Get off of me," Jason snarls. He tries and tries to push himself back up but Slade's weight is a heavy, hot thing on his back. He can't move no matter how hard he forces himself up. Just how weak has he become over the last few weeks?

Slade digs the sharp point of his elbow between Jason's shoulder blades and holds him there. Pinned, as helpless as a butterfly on a board.

"I don't think you understand your position yet, Jason. Before, when I wasn't associated with you, you could run your mouth. Insult others, start fights," Slade presses him harder against the divider. Enough to drive the air from his chest, leaving him wheezing uncomfortably. "Do whatever it is young pricks like you do when your biggest insecurity is the size of your cock. But now?”

Slade yanks Jason off the divider and throws him onto the tile. The aches in his body flare up, locking his body in a painfully-numb haze. Jason makes to roll over the moment he can feel his arms twitching, but it’s too little too late. A foot slams down on his back while gun-calloused hands lock Jason’s arms behind his back in a steel-strong grip.

“But now? Now your behavior reflects back on me. Every fight you get into, every man you back talk, every time you chew your fucking food is my business. My pets behave themselves.”

“I’m not your pet,” Jason tugs at his arms. No dice. He’s forgotten how strong Slade was and has grown lax and naive in his victory. His frustration gives way to blazing agony as cruel fingers dig into the half-healed bite wound on his shoulder.

“Unless you want to be bunkmates with Napier again, fight off the entire inmate population of Blackgate, survive Bolton’s grudge against you, you are my pet. That is, of course, assuming you don’t take the easy way out yourself.” Slade leans in close. The ghost of his breath and stubble tickling the shell of Jason’s ear. “I can even give you the rope.”

“Fuck you,” Jason spits.

“That’s what I thought.”

Slade slips off Jason’s back and hauls him by the throat. Jason claws at the hand. He might as well be a weak child in the grip of an indifferent God. A hand tightens on Jason’s shoulder.

"I own you.”

Then Slade takes his right arm and easily dislocates it from his shoulder.

* * *

He doesn’t make it simple for Slade.

It’s harder for Jason. Arm in a sling and aches so painful from sleeping on the concrete floor—he refuses to use any of the beds even now. He doesn’t have the help of his gang, his eyes and ears in the prison now deafened and blinded. When he tries to ask about sending letters to his remaining family outside of Blackgate—to at least make sure Artemis is alright—Bolton laughs in his face.

“That’s for inmates who demonstrate good behavior,” Bolton told him when Jason demanded, at the very least, a pen and paper to write with. “You have numerous complaints from the guards for fighting, back talk, and being a rebellious inmate. You’re lucky I haven’t put you in solitary confinement.”

“But it’s my _right._ ”

“Your rights protected by the federal government are only that we provide you with medical care, protect your right to free speech, keep you free from discrimination, and offer you the choice to complain about prison conditions to a higher court. There is nothing about sending letters to your pregnant girlfriend. Get out of my office.”

Later Jason watched Dick write a letter to the freaks in the circus he grew up with as a child. Slade sends it out with his mail in the afternoon. Jason nearly strangles the two of them on impulse, swallowing down his own bitter resent.

That night Slade fucked Dick against the bars of the cell while the rest of the men hooted and hollered and Jason stewed his corner, licking his wounded pride. Something that Dick no doubt exchanged for mail privileges long ago.

Jason knows his “luck” is courtesy of his new master. Without Slade’s interest, Bolton would have locked him in a hole underground and thrown away the key. The humiliation burns Jason down to his very bones. He’s never relied on anyone for anything. Not even in the earliest days with his parents. Attachments do little to aid. Their only use is for others to exploit. Jason’s grown too reliant on the help of his gang. Without Roy or even Nathan—not the pathetic wretch he’s been transformed into—he’s helplessly weak. It’s embarrassing. It’s disgraceful. It's why Slade’s been able to steal Blackgate’s control right out from under Jason’s nose.

Anger makes Jason stupid. He’s not above denying that part of himself. Fueled by cold spite Jason’s intelligent. Analyzes his moves, thinks before speaking and makes sure that everything he does serves a purpose to further his goal. He didn’t claim nearly all of Gotham under the name of the Red Hoods before he turned twenty because he got lucky. But red-hot animosity makes him lash out. Careless and indifferent. It’s why Roy and Artemis, who served as second-in-command, were so important to the survival of the Red Hoods. Providing levelheaded and calm dissenting opinions when he needed them.

Neither are there now.

Within an hour of returning to his cell after Elliot fixes his arm, Slade breaks two of Jason’s fingers. The reason? Punishment for punching Slade across the mouth the moment Cobblepot locked the cell door.

That night Slade turns to Dick and says, "you want a night off? Show me how badly you want it."

Jason doesn't know what it means. Dick does. It's like watching everything good and kind get sucked out of him. The compassionate blue of his eyes is hollow and devoid of anything other than survival. An empty shell of his former self. Then he attacks Jason with a speed and flexibility he’s been cultivating ever since Slade bought the leash to his collar.

Jason easily has more fight experience between the two of them. Crime Alley provides an endless amount of practice targets. Drug dealers, pimps, and mob men it doesn’t matter. Jason knows more than just how to throw a punch. But he's injured, tired and Dick has numerous tricks that he doesn't hesitate to pull out. It ends faster than it begins. Jason feints a hit with his left arm to sweep up with his right foot. Dick drops onto his back and springs up with a side-kick that cracks two ribs. Then he grapples Jason to the ground. Legs wrapped around Jason's throat, choking up so hard black spots start eating away at the corner of his eyes. Jason tries to throw him off, bucking his hips and squirming across the floor. Dick holds fast.

In a last, desperate attempt, he slaps at Dick’s legs, grunting at him. _Let go. Let go!_ He doesn’t. To Jason’s dawning horror Dick squeezes tighter.

Then Slade claps and it’s like a spell is broken. Dick drops him immediately, scrambling off the floor. Red-faced and panting, starting at Jason equal parts startled and disgusted. Slade reaches under the bed and tosses Dick something. It’s a bottle of lube.

"Don't break him, Grayson."

That makes Dick stutter. He looks Slade and down at Jason. His hands tremble. Fatigue maybe? No, something darker. _Revulsion._ Dick drops the bottle and takes a step back.

“No,” he says.

Slade sighs, cracks his neck and takes Dick to the ground in a flash of silver and orange. He does it so hard if Slade were another man, less deliberate and methodical, he might have accidentally snapped Dick's neck. As it happens, he leaves Dick on the ground, immobilized and numb with pain. Stalks over to Jason and drags him across the floor by the hair.

"Let me show you how it's done, Richard. Next time, I won't be so understanding."

Slade fucks Jason on top of Dick's locked up body. Hard. Hard enough that they get noise complaints from the neighboring block from Jason's howling.

Then, when Slade, finishes he leaves Jason, a bloody leaking mess on the floor and dumps Dick onto his cot. Curls up around him, a dragon guarding his horde of gold.

Dick and Jason stay awake the whole night glaring daggers at one another.

"It would be easier if you just kept your mouth shut,” Dick says.

Jason laughs. "I thought you said it would take a lot more than a cock to shut you up, looks like Slade's managed to do the impossible."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, considering you've been a walking vegetable for the better half of a month.” That stings. _You’re a useless fool, Jason Todd_.

"Come down here and say that to my face, princess. I'll show you who's a fucking vegetable."

Dick watches him in silent contempt. "I have never met a man with as much anger and hate as you, Jason. And despite the amount of disgust I have for you, I'm not about to beat a man who is already at his lowest.”

"There's room for one more down here."

"Go to sleep, Jason. Maybe you'll do us all a favor and wake up with more common sense."

In the coming days Jason receives a black eye, loses his back molar, gets a bite mark so deep in the ridge of his hip it gets infected, and, probably the worst, pulled over Slade’s lap in the middle of the cafeteria and spanked.

“Maybe I should have started with this,” Slade rubs at the raw, red skin on Jason’s ass. He hisses, the tender sting enough to bring biting tears to the corner of his eyes. The blood pounding in his ears hardly drowns out the catcalls echoing around the walls of the filled room. “It certainly seems to shut you up faster than the other punishments have.”

The rest of the men have formed a circle around them. Watching with beady, lust-filled eyes. One openly palms himself through his pants. The cafeteria guards pretend not to notice. Jason has come to expect nothing from them. They are nothing more than more members of the inmate population in Blackgate. Just with different colored uniforms.

Another slap has Jason snarling. He clamps down on his lip when Slade instantly hits him again.

“I don’t think you realize how much of a hell I can inflict upon you in here Jason. If you had even a fraction of an idea you wouldn’t sleep, eat, or speak without my approval.”

“If your version of hell is spanking me like a child in front of a group of men you've led a pretty good life."

"I am being kind, Jason. Spit in my face again and I'll give you to a man that puts fear into the Devil.” Slade’s voice drops, “don’t think I won’t.”

"Over-exaggeration really isn't your style, Slade. Next time, try to be more original in your insults and maybe actually make good on your threats.” He might as well be competing against Dick for the gold medal in running his mouth at the worst possible time. It’s never gotten him in trouble before. But he’s always had the confidence in his ability to back-up whatever quip he made. Not so much anymore.

Slade shoves him off his lap. Gets up and returns to the table beside Dick, his back to Jason.

The outright ignoring of his presence lights a fire that's been building inside him like a powder keg for the past week. _Anger makes you stupid._ No, anger gets things done. It makes people respect you. He grabs the nearest food tray from a protesting Lazlo and dumps it over Slade's head. Takes advantage of his surprise by shoving his face down into the hot bowl of soup on his plate.

The prison goes silent. _Anger makes you fucking stupid you insane fool._

Dick stares between Jason and Slade, mute with horror. Slade, unnaturally calm, sits up. Brushes the strings of noodles from his hair and takes off his now filthy eyepatch. He glances over to Jason, almost dead-eyed and says in a very quiet voice.

"Alright."

Nothing happens that day. It doesn’t stop Jason from sleeping in intervals of ten minutes with his back pressed tight to the concrete wall. He doesn’t have a knife to defend himself. Just a rock he picked up in the field and the sling on his arm. Not that it would stop someone with Slade’s skill from turning both into weapons against him.

The next day goes by without incident. The men laugh when they get Jason to jump after catching him in an empty hallway on his way to laundry duty. A little extra bleach on the crotch of their uniforms is the only retribution he can seek.

A week later Jason goes lax. He lets his guard down. Doesn't think about Slade's threat. Doesn't even let it enter his mind. Sitting on it makes him anxious and stew on the fear of what eventually will come to pass and that hurts him more than what Slade will and can do. Better to figure out what to do in the long term now that Dick has cast his ballot with Slade. His other priority is Nathan or the limpid, pale shadow of himself. If Jason can talk to him maybe the two of them stand a chance. Making an alliance with the smaller, but heavier in number gangs like the Falcones will help them go up in Blackgate’s hierarchy.

The chance never comes when three weeks later Cobblepot comes with a letter.

Dick is on the ground, held there with his hand wrenched high on his back with Slade’s foot on his neck. Jason hardly knows the point of the sparring exercises Slade forces, Dick, to do. They’re mostly, from what he can tell, just lessons in absolute cruelty. No matter what Dick—or Jason—does will stop Slade from manipulating them however he wants. Driving them insane with public displays of daily humiliation. Cobblepot watches the show for a minute or two before he barks out an order.

“Open on 32. Wouldn’t you know it? Looks like you're finally getting out of Blackgate, Todd.”

Dick gasps, a horrible, wet, distressed sound. Jason sees a flurry of emotion flash across his face. Panic melts straight down to palpable misery until he hides his face against the floor. Slade doesn’t even glance Jason’s way.

Roy had done it. That fucking kid had managed to do it from Stonegate. He shouldn't have gotten  
so worried about it. Shouldn't have gone to Slade. Roy was going to get him out. He was always going to get him out.

"Can I ask why?" Jason winks at Slade's back and turns away quickly before he has to watch the betrayal and fear spill across Dick's face.

"It's a temporary release order, Todd, don't get too excited now."

“Temporary, huh? Why’s that,” it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care. Soon he’ll be out of this place. He’ll send in some help for Nathan and Dick. Get a better lawyer to get Bolton fired. Maybe even incarcerated at Blackgate for Roland to fuck.

“Yeah,” Cobblepot’s grin is a hideous thing. “How else are you going to make it to your mother's funeral?"

Jason freezes. _His mother?_

* * *

They wrap him up in a four-piece suit, cuffs on his wrists and legs attached to the chain at his waist with boxes over the locks. As if that wasn’t enough they find the biggest guards on call, Roland and Calvin, to hold him in place. Then, when Cobblepot is checking off his list to approve Jason for the release, he calls out to Isley.

"Get me a bite mask for, Todd. God knows how much he needs one."

The mask is made of uncomfortable plastic that digs into his cheeks when they strap it in place behind his ears. Cobblepot watches from a safe distance, smirking as Isley tightens the straps on the back of his head. When Oswald steps forward to check the strength of the cuffs Jason lunges at him.

He can’t do much with the death-grip on either of his arms, but it’s enough that Cobblepot goes tumbling back onto the ground with a startled yelp. Jason’s eyes crinkle, grin wide and full of teeth behind the white plastic of the mask. Oswald scrambles to his feet, face a tomato red and glares to his side where Calvin snickers quietly.

“One more laugh out of you, Officer Rose, and I’ll report you to Bolton for insubordination.”

“Sorry, boss,” Calvin barely keeps from smiling. “Won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Oswald turns to Roland. “If you would, Desmond.”

Jason can count on one hand how many times he’s been hurt so badly nausea overwhelmed him so intensely he was sick. Roland merely sidesteps around Jason and slams his enormous fist into Jason’s stomach. The reaction is damn near instantaneous. White, burning white-hot agony erupts across his abdomen. His lungs seize up, curling in on themselves leaving him breathless and dizzy from savage vertigo. If it weren’t for the arms holding him Jason would be on the floor, grabbing at his belly fighting back the vomit in his throat.

It’s easier for Calvin and Roland to drag him out to the transport vehicle while he sucks in deep, shaky breaths.

“Sorry about your mother,” Oswald says before they shut the truck’s back doors. “I’m sure you weren’t her first choice as a son neither.”

The next sick wave that washes over him isn’t solely due to Roland.

There are three men in the car. Calvin, Roland, and the driver escorting Jason out to the “funeral.” Jason knows immediately that Roland isn’t apart of whatever the escape plan this is. Knows it’s a plan because his mother overdosed years ago. The state doesn’t know that though. Clever, Roy. Very clever. He hasn’t spoken to Roland after his failed transfer out of Blackgate with the way he treated Dick—the memory still makes Jason cold with shame. Doubts Roy would waste any time trying to get in contact with a man Jason’s expressed his dislike for daily.

Calvin’s a little different. Jason doesn’t know much about him aside from the basics everyone knew. Creepy, yellow-eyed bastard that had—if rumors were to be believed—killed at least three inmates on the behalf of some rich bastard in Gotham’s social elite. Jason believes it the same way he believes in ghosts and lizard men controlling Hollywood. With a roll of his eyes and wondering how often their parents dropped them on their heads as children.

The driver Jason hasn’t gotten a look at. They were, most likely, to be one of Roy’s men who arranged the temporary release out of Blackgate. Roy must have gotten to Artemis somehow and worked around the state’s denial of his parole. Once he’s out of Gotham he’ll find a way to get Dick out of there too. It’s the least Jason can do.

The drive takes an hour. Roland and Calvin aren’t big conversationalists, Roland, because he’s an asshole, reads. Like he was taking the bus to work and not escorting Jason _Fucking_ Todd, leader of the Red Hoods, out of prison. Calvin, on the other hand, stares pointed and intense at Jason. He glares right back, watching Calvin with open dislike until the room is thick with it. Roland catches them after a moment and elbows Jason.

“Cut it out with your dick measuring contest, inmate,” Roland shakes his head and lifts up his book. _The Fountainhead_. So obnoxiously Roland, overly pretentious and poetic. Jason nearly makes a lunge for the book on principle alone. Instead, he does all he can do. Stare at it and hope it bursts into flames.

The car slows to a sudden stop out of nowhere. Jason jolts and glances at the doors while Roland licks his finger and turns another page. Calvin lazily rests a hand on the grip of his holstered handgun.

The car rocks and there’s a slam before the back doors open and light floods the enclosed space. Jason’s seen the sun in the yard in Blackgate. Most of the time it’s hidden behind the thick, grey marine layer of fog that rises over the ocean that surrounds Blackgate’s island. When its hot rays burn that away it's a bright heat that beats down on his back, equally as oppressive as the watchtowers with their guardsmen and rifles. For a moment, the light that shines into the back of the prison transport van is so bright, Jason thinks, _God, what they say about leaving prison is true. Everything is better on the outside_.

The light doesn’t come from the sun. Standing in front of the van are three blazing floodlights that chase away the shadows until there is nothing left but a blinding, white glow. It’s so harsh that even when Jason looks up into the darkness above them purple and red spots dance across his vision. There are layers of piping shooting across the sky(?), which Jason doesn’t remember being apart of the normal environment before he went to prison. He’s inside somewhere.

Roland shoves him out of the truck and onto the dirty, concrete floor. “Whoops,” he says.

Jason ducks his head and squints through nearly closed eyes, observing the immediate area. There are the annoying lights, check. Past them, Jason can see the gathering of men in black suits, not too out of the ordinary with a funeral. Then Jason sees their faces and his heart stops. Masks. All of them are wearing some sort of abortion of a gimp mask with bug-eyed sockets and barred mouths. Abominations of leather and straps with o-rings for chains. Jason only knows one gang in Gotham that decided on that kind of raunchy aesthetic. A cool, calm voice cuts across the gathering, razor-sharp and terribly familiar.

“Look who’s finally made it. Our guest of honor.”

Jason has met Roman Sionis exactly once. Four years ago when Jason was on the fast-track to underworld stardom with several successful and high-profile bank robberies in central Gotham. Roman reached out to him with an offer. They work together to drive the other gangs out of Gotham and split the territory 70-30, with the False Face Society standing a lot to gain. Jason pretended to consider the deal, laughed in his face and stole his idea to drive the rest of the big time gangs from Gotham with the Red Hoods at the top. It surprised no one that low-level Gotham scum chose Jason’s gang over Roman’s, especially when there was no requirement of dabbling in sadomasochism. Or kinky uniforms.

Roman saunters forward into the gleam of the floodlights, cutting an impressive shadow that stretches across Jason’s hunched form. Scrambling to his feet would only make it worse, Roman’s infatuation with fear was only eclipsed by Dr. Crane’s in Blackgate—only Roman preferred to be the cause of it. So Jason eases himself to his knees, casual and indifferent to Roman’s steady approach until he’s blocking Jason’s entire view.

“Red Hood,” Roman says, smug even behind the blankness of the mask. “Thought you weren’t a fan of masks.”

“Maybe you should fix that,” Jason says, warped and muffled beneath the plastic.

Roman crouches down and reaches forward. Jason jolts his head back, but Roman grabs the plastic bottom and keeps him still.

“A fan of backtalk still aren’t you? Figures. Slade can talk all he wants about training obedience into mindless army brats but he doesn’t know anything about breaking stubborn mutts like you.” Roman nods to the men.

“Get him up,” then to Roland. “How long before Bolton starts bitching?”

Roland shrugs. “Until late tonight, you know how funerals are. How long would you say, Malone?”

The driver, who Jason only now just notices steps around from the side of the car, looks uncomfortable. He’s tall with so much grease in his hair Jason feels oily just looking at it. There’s a match, chewed to hell, dangling between the chapped skin of his mouth and his eyes are hidden behind the dark aviators. He shifts back then again on his feet. Jason knows the signs of addiction. Seen in a million times in Roy and now in this guy. Jesus, where does Gotham find these worms?

“Five hours or so,” Malone says. “Wouldn’t go too long, Bolton already doesn’t like it.”

“Long enough.” Roman let's go and straightens out. “It’s going to be a small service anyway. Ain’t that right, Jason? Who’d give a fuck about some old junkie OD’ing huh?”

It hurts, it hurts just as much as it did when Jason found his mother. Frost cold in a puddle of her own piss and vomit, hands stuck in rigid claws tearing at her blouse and mouth wrenched open, mid-scream at the ceiling.

Jason lurches forward. Manages to grab Roman’s pant leg with his hands—cuffed in front of him, classic mistake—and yanks. Roman goes down hard. There are hands on him in a second pulling him off Roman before he can drag him any closer. Jason laughs, loud and vicious behind the mask as Roman scrambles to his feet, shoving the outreached hands away.

“Get off me!” Roman snarls and brushes off his suit. Rolling his shoulders and tucking his tie back into his jacket. “That’s not going to help you in the long run, baby."  
  
_Sure, it will._ Jason tilts his chin back and glares at Roman down the length of the mask’s nose. Roman backhands him, just hard enough for Jason’s head to whip to the side. He bares his teeth, all the good that does, and feels a vindictively pleased as Roman cradles his hand at his side. _Maybe there’s some use in a good mask after all._

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Roman turns. “Malone, Rose, you stay here with the truck, Roland make sure he stays still in the elevator up. Chain for fuck’s sake do your job next time.” Even with his arms, legs, and mouth restrained as they are, Jason gives two of Roman’s men a pair of black eyes and splits Roland’s upper lip open. That’s until biggest guy there, Chain, chokes him within an inch of passing out.

Jason misses most of the elevator ride up, dazed and struggling to catch a breath through the small airways in the mask. It’s a tight squeeze for all of them, even without Roland’s massive body cramping the back of the room. Roman went up alone with one man, Jason can’t remember which one out of the group, and God what Jason wouldn’t give for some free space up the dozens of floors.

By the time they reach the top, after several long minutes, Jason more aware and breathing steadily. He catches a glimpse at the panel for the rooms, counts all the way up to floor fifty-two, thinks about all the skyscrapers in Gotham Roman owns a penthouse—that he knows of—in and narrows it down to the Janus’ Cosmetics building or the Gotham Village Apartments tower. Little good that information does him, save for something to be stored away in the back of his brain for later use. There’s something, an oppressive weight pressing heavy on the back of his shoulders and his chest feels tight.

Jason breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. Then counts the number of random objects in the room. A pin of an enamel rose on a lapel. The engraved grip of a Desert Eagle tucked away in a thigh holster. The blonde curls of hair poking out beneath a mask. His name is Jason Todd. _His name is Jason Todd._

He is not _helpless_.

The elevator doors open and Roman’s lackeys tug him into the room like a feral dog at the end of a short leash. He doesn’t make it easy for them, dragging his feet and squirming as hard as a beached fish even with Roland pushing him forward. They shove him to his knees in the center of a wide and expansive bedroom, dripping with opulence from the gold-leafed wood paneling on the walls to the ebony-rich leather of the furniture. The thing that captures Jason's attention, however, first is the thin layer of clear plastic covering the white-carpeted floor.

Roman sits back in a luxurious leather chair, cradling a crystal glass dark with red wine loosely in the gloved palm of his hand. Relaxed and indolent, legs spread wide in his seat. Slacks riding up high enough to reveal ridiculously patterned, black silk socks tucked into designer men's shoes. Placed on the small table next to him is a bottle of some five grand wine, the gleaming silver handle of a revolver and Roman's favorite black mask.

Roland drops him on the center of the plastic.

"Leave us." Roman's voice sounds different without the covering of the mask. Deeper, if that were possible, tinged with the rasp of cigar smoke.

The rest of Roman's men and Roland exit through the elevator leaving Jason alone underneath Roman's uncovered and burning stare. Jason's throat is Sahara-dry, watching the way Roman swirls the wine around in his glass.

"I didn't lie to the commission board Jason when I asked for a temporary release order for your attendance at a funeral."

"I'm shocked," Jason swallows but it does little to calm the dryness in his throat. "Are you going to tell me my mother's not dead?"

Roman tilts his head, maroon eyes glittering with cool amusement. "Do you remember when we met? Four years ago, you had just put a bullet in Carmine Falcone, still had his blood on that trashy leather jacket of yours. I asked you if you wanted to run Gotham with me and you laughed in my face. If you were anyone else I'd have shot you the moment you looked at me without the ounce of the respect I deserve."

"Which is nothing," Jason rolls onto his knees, hard as it is in his four-piece suit, chains clinking together loudly in the silence of the penthouse. "I should have killed you the moment you _disrespected me_ with that insult you called a deal. You're lucky I let you live."

"And that’s why I'm not in chains and you are," Roman sets his glass down and stands up.

"If you're going to kill me Roman," Jason says, "you better make sure I'm dead because I won't make the same mistake twice."

"And draw Bolton's righteous anger down on my head? No, I'm not going to kill you, Jason." Roman smiles and walks over to the lit fireplace in the corner of the room. He eyes it for a moment then reaches to the side and grabs an iron pole leaning against the brick mantle, heavy at the end with a large, unknown shape.

He sticks the end into the fire and waits a long moment. Jason watches, slow-dawning horror creeping through his veins, cold as ice, to his very core.

Roman removes the iron pole, _the brand_ , red hot and glowing in the shape of a black skull. "I'm simply killing the last Red Hood.”

Fear is a tidal wave. It crushes the air from his lungs and leaves him dazed, with an overwhelming rush of raw animal-like panic. He stumbles back. The chains on legs and wrists catch and, almost like a frantic dog chewing its foot out of a trap, he uses his shoulders to drag himself back.

Roman approaches slowly. Step by step across the wood-paneled floor and onto the plastic-covered carpet. He starts whistling softly under his breath. A deep, haunting tenor.

“ _There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun_ ,” Roman grabs Jason’s ankle and yanks him back. Jason snarls tugs at the hold only for Roman to sit on his legs. “ _And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy_.”

Roman pulls his shirt out of the chain wrapped around his waist, all the way up to his neck. Baring the Red Hoods tattoo he got when he was a little over seventeen. A feat he did himself. The brand glistens in the beams of the sunset that filter through the room. Bathing the penthouse in hues of fiery red and orange. Held inches above his chest, above his tattoo, above his identity the brand already smarts.

“Please,” Jason says. “Don’t do this.”

Roman smiles.

" _And God I know I'm one._ "

* * *

+

Even an hour later the room still stinks of melting skin.

The branding itself Jason barely remembers. If he thinks about it all that comes to him are flashes of emotions. Pain is the strongest, indescribable and agonizing. Jason’s nauseous just trying to remember. The stench of it still so heavy in his nose he can taste it on the tip of his tongue. Hear Roman’s voice humming the tune to “ _The House of the Rising Sun_ ” in his ear. The splash of disinfectant on the wound wrenched howls from his throat so distressingly loud Roman had to tear off the bite mask and gag him with the torn strip of his shirt.

Cried fat, wet tears into the plastic of the mask while Roman cooed and bandaged his chest.

“Looks better on you than I imagined. You were always a bit on the pretty boy side before you went and covered yourself in tats like some East End slut. Can take the boy out of Crime Alley but can’t take the Alley out of the boy, eh?” Roman pushed Jason’s bangs back. “I was thinking about just burning you and sending you back to Bolton with your tail between your legs. But now?”

Roman trailed that hand down the side of the mask. Danced feather-light touches along the bandaged burn, across his navel before cupping his cock through the slacks. “You look so pretty when you’re in pain. I see why Slade put in all that work to get the two of you.” Roman pulled down Jason’s slacks. “Let's see your little, pink hole baby.”

Jason’s stomach stings.

The plastic stopped being irritating an hour ago, now it’s only a minor annoyance in the face of the overall anguish of his body. Raw from the rhythmic rubbing against his burn and stomach, naked cock crushed painfully beneath the weight of his body. If he concentrates hard enough on the objects in the room—the sofa Jason’s very drawn too, counting the number of scuff marks along the side—it becomes a dull, hazy thing. Hidden away in the recesses of his mind until a sharp jolt from above him forces him back into the present moment.

Or Roman speaks. Which he, unfortunately, tends to do a lot.

“Slade been saving you for me, honey? Can’t believe you’re this tight with the size of the pole you kept lodged up your ass.”

Roman’s cock, thankfully, isn’t as big as Slade’s. The pros, however, end there. Roman uses his dick the same way he would a knife, stabbing it into Jason with brutal, unrelenting thrusts, too fast or too slow to be anything besides a consistent and degrading burn. He can’t breathe. Just whimper pathetic cries into the gag. The plastic of the bite mask digging harsh, shallow cuts into his cheeks.

This is Roman’s third round. He doesn’t bother taking his time. Uses Jason more or less like a blow-up doll to fuck when he gets bored. When Roman comes, he gets up, admires the sight of Jason, half-conscious on the bloody plastic—Roman didn’t bother using anything more than spit, he’s never been that generous of a man—thighs slicked with red-tinged lube and cum. Makes a few calls, gazes at the neon lights of Gotham city at night then slides right back in. Jason assumes he must have popped a Viagra or something into his wine. There’s no reason for him to keep going for so long. Doesn’t know how much longer he himself can last like this.

“Don’t think you’ll be like this for much longer. With what Slade tells me, he’s nearly up to his tits in demands for a piece of you. He’s been letting you feed off his goodwill for long enough. I wonder what you did to piss him off so badly, baby.”

Jason groans into the gag. The memory of embarrassing Slade in the cafeteria after being spanked, the combination of milk and gravy in the strands of his hair. It was funny then. Now? Now, Jason is so sick with anxious regret he’d give anything to take it all back.

Roman pushes in a little deeper, head brushing against the edge of his prostate. It’s barely pleasurable. Just a drop of satisfaction in a sea of torture. He moans anyway. The uncomfortable feeling of humiliation abandoned long ago. Whatever Roman wants he’s free to take. Jason can do little to resist him.

A laugh. “Oh I know, princess, if it were up to me I’d keep you to myself. Tied down like this, nothing but my cock to keep you company. If you were good enough that is. Can’t have an uppity pet think you can call the shots.”

Jason shakes his head. _Not your pet. Never your pet. I’d rather die._

“Maybe I’ll see what I can do about getting you released from Blackgate and under house arrest for the rest of your sentence. How’d you feel about that doll?”

 _You mean for 125 years? Not fucking likely._ Jason shakes his head. Pants into the gag as Roman rolls his hips and presses almost tenderly against his sensitive nerves. His cock, only in response to the stimulus, twitches slightly. Roman, of course, notices.

“You like that, honey?” Roman smirks and takes Jason by the hip with one hand. Latches onto the back of his neck with the other and pulls him up. Angling his body until Jason is sitting in his lap.

God, it hurts. Doesn’t really surprise him at this point. His stomach is uncomfortable, ill with the amount of distress on his body and Roman’s cum inside him. Fuck, he hates this. Hates everything about it. What he wouldn’t give to get his hands free for just a second. That’s all he needs to tear Roman’s slimy tongue from his throat.

Roman slows, rocking into him with deep, punishing thrusts. The angle of his body lets Roman force himself impossibly further into Jason, jolts of pleasure gradually building into a steady, pulsing wave. Jason knows that’s Roman’s goal. Drive him to orgasm as one final insult before he releases him back into Blackgate’s custody. Entertains the idea of fighting it, thinking of everything from Roland’s fuck-ugly face to Roy in the midst of a withdrawal-fueled seizure. They only serve to sicken him more than he’d care to admit. Sets the embarrassment aside, accepts the inevitable. It’s not bad for his body to get off on targeted external stimulus. _It’s not._

It’s the…believing it to be true. That it’s not his fault. That’s the hard part.

Jason moans. Let's his head fall back onto Roman’s shoulder and breathes through his nose. Focuses on the ribbon-thin strips of delight that barely distract from the overwhelming tides of pain.

“Yeah, pumpkin, knew you liked this. Your body was made for this.” Roman pants into his ear. “Do me a favor would you? Act out more often so Slade keeps sending you back my way. If not, well, a few bars never stopped me from getting what I wanted before.”

Roman’s hips stutter and he pushes in deeper. Turns his head and sinks his teeth into Jason’s shoulder with a dark growl. It’s enough to push Jason into the weakest orgasm of his life. Barely even manages to work himself into finishing at all. Cum drools out of his cock before it goes limp against his thigh. Shriveling in on itself.

A breathless laugh. “Don’t say I didn’t do anything for you, Jason.”

Roman shoves Jason off his lap onto the floor. Stands up, smoothes out the wrinkles in his coat and sneers down at Jason with satisfaction fitting for a dirty politician. _You are nothing but an insect I have yet to crush._

_+_

Jason passes out, finally, as Roman calls for Roland and Calvin.

When he comes to again, he’s lying down, restrained to a bed in Blackgate’s hospital room. His second home nowadays. Far from safe but familiar enough to relax the stubborn tension that still lingers in the line of his shoulders. As his vision clears he notices someone peering down at him. Not one of the medical staff. The orange on their jumpsuit isn’t nurse or doctor white. _His prison master._

Slade’s face is flat. “You’ll find that I don’t make idle threats. Test me again and the next time won’t be nearly as enjoyable I assure you.”

Jason swallows and even that, with his throat raw from screaming, hurts. He nods. Slade gets up and brushes some of the hair from Jason’s face.

“Nathan is dead. Hung himself at dinner call. In a week the men will start asking for you. Behave and I’ll reject half of those offers. Don’t and I’ll let every single one of them take you and then invite the commanding officers.” Slade slips out of the room as Dr. Elliot returns.

Jason doesn’t fight the tears or dark space of unconsciousness when it comes.

* * *

On the fourth day of his recovery, he wakes to a package on his nightstand.

It’s a little brown box, wrapped with a purple ribbon, poorly dyed and stitched together from scraps of inmate uniforms. Sits next to his glass of water and antibiotics for the morning, innocent and unassuming. Blackgate has no room for kindness or and sincerity Jason stares at it, suspicion and terror rising alongside the bile in his throat. Tentatively, he reaches over and takes the box with his free hand. The box is entirely cardboard and the bottom is darkly stained, still partially wet. Jason hesitates then unties the bow and lifts open the lid.

Grey eyes stare up at him.

Jason stares back, voiceless in alarm. At the bloody strands of served optical nerves tied together in a gory bow. The note carved onto the lid, _Feel better soon, Jason! Nathan couldn’t make it to the get-well party, but I know he would have wanted to see you! - Love Jack._

Down the hall, he thinks he hears someone laugh.

When the rest of the doctors make it in that morning they find Jason, arm cut nearly to the bone from trying to wrench himself free. His voice is gone and all he does is scream and scream and scream. Johnathan Crane is fascinated.

Dr. Crane makes an annotation to the book he’s writing on his treatments with the Blackgate prisoners. He mentions the dreams that haunt Jason, renamed Peter, of dancing clowns with Glasgow smiles that pry out his eyes with the tapered end of a bloody crowbar. In his analysis, he toys around with the possible diagnosis of schizophrenia for the voices "Peter" hears. Not sleep-deprived PTSD hallucinations. Sends a letter to the state recommending his patient by confined to the mental wing for further treatment.

Jason is only spared a life of being Crane's lab rat by Bolton's refusal to "treat Jason any better than the others."

He's sent back to general population the day Dr. Elliot clears him. On the way back Napier is on the way in for his daily medication. Dr. Crane has arranged it so they run into one another.

"Jason," Jack smiles, trussed up in a straightjacket and mask. "Did you get my present, darling boy? It was the best I could do on such short notice. A shame that I couldn't get your roommate's pretty eyes for you. Slade's such a bore. Next time I'll get you something even better."

Jack's laughter plays like a broken record in Jason's head the whole walk back to cell block A. They have to sedate him halfway through when Jason starts breathing so loudly it scares the nurses half to death. Malone takes him from the nurses on the way back.

“Jesus, kid, what have they done to you?” He sounds regretful. That’s something they have in common.

* * *

Dick doesn’t see Jason for a week after his temporary release. When he returns his skin is pale, arm once again in a sling, and feverish to the touch. But nothing is nearly as bad as the wound on his chest. The burned image of a skull, bubbling yellow with pus-filled blisters, across the center of the Red Hoods tattoo. It turns Dick’s stomach looking at it.

That’s all it takes.

The disgust, anger, and hate that Dick might have felt for Jason for his trade with Roland evaporates. It’s practically instant. Slade’s out when they return Jason, most likely in a meeting with Bolton, which is better for both of them. Jason more or less collapses into Dick’s arms, exhausted and half-dazed from the remnants of anesthesia. Eyes hazy with confusion that melts away the moment he recognizes Dick. Sullen blue drowning out the vibrant flecks of green.

“Dick,” Jason croaks and drops to his knees. Wraps his arms tightly around Dick’s legs, burying his face into the cloth. “ _Dick_.”

If there were even a remnant of his ill will he held for Jason from the day he was taken out of Blackgate the desperation in Jason’s voice is the final nail in its coffin. He drops to his knees and pulls Jason into his lap, tucking his head under his shoulder. Shushes him softly.

“I’ve got you, little wing, I’ve got you.” _I’ll be damned if I ever let you out of my sight again_.

“I’m so sorry, _Dick please_ , I’m so sorry.” It’s terrifying, watching Jason reduced to nothing more than a limp body sobbing against him. Gently, he tenderly strokes a hand down the back of Jason’s head. Rubs his thumb in deep circles against the base of his neck.

“I know. I know you are.”

It continues like this for minutes, maybe hours. Dick’s able to convince Jason to join him on the lower bunk so he can lie down. Positions Jason on his back and half spoons him, desperate to keep him as close as possible until he calms down. Jason stops crying immediately but clings to Dick like a security blanket. Dick thinks little of it. If anything only black, vicious fury towards the monster that did this. Who dared to call themselves a _human_ that was capable of such mindless savagery.

Slade comes and is gone again. Takes one look at Jason and Dick before leaving the cell with nothing more than a scoff. Dick hates him more than anything. Hates that he would do something like this to another person. Hates Blackgate and Bolton and all the men inside where rape and violence and murder are normal. Hates that he had nearly stooped to their level in the days after Jason's "initiation."

"I'm sorry," Jason mumbles again hours later in the fading light of the cell. He's calmer. Infinitely more so than when he arrived. Dick sighs, relieved. He doubts he could be strong enough for both of them for long.

"It's okay, little wing," Dick means it. He truly does. There will probably be some part of him that will always resent Jason for what he had done. But it's quiet and easily shut away in the deep pits of his mind where the event happened. Locked inside, never to be opened again.

"It's not and I'm sorry."

"I know, I know," Dick says.

"I'd do anything to take it back. I swear, Dick, I'd do anything to make it up to you," Dick turns his head and kisses him. It's the softest kiss Dick's ever given anybody. Packs everything he thinks into it and hopes, prays that Jason can feel it too. Just to communicate the simple, singular thought. _It's okay_.

Jason stiffens under it and Dick tsks himself, _that's not the way to treat a rape victim._ Then Jason is wrapping his arm around Dick's neck and pressing back against him. Holding on tightly as if he were at risk of being swept away. When they part, Dick holds his forehead against Jason’s. Enjoying the moment of quiet, just sharing the air between the two of them, without Slade looming over them like a wrathful god.

"If you want to make it up to me Jason," Dick wets his lips. "You have to stop messing with Slade."

Jason huffs. "I don't know if I can."

"You have to, Jason. I can't help you and you can't help me if you're eating out of a tube in the infirmary every other day. Making him angry is only making things worse for the two of us." Dick pauses and, when Jason doesn't interrupt, continues. "I...If I behave Slade listens to me. Not a lot, but more than he does with you. If I asked him for something he'd probably consider giving it to me. Like, making your punishments something more bearable. You understand?"

"Slade won't just give it to you," Jason growls. Glares at the cell door, ready for Slade to walk in at any moment. "Face it, doll, he'll make you do something in exchange."

"Slade doesn't like to share me," Dick frowns. "If he wants me to do something I'll do it."

"What if he wants to take you in front of the entire population of Blackgate just so he doesn't have to hit me?"

"Then I'll do it."

Jason blinks. Opens his mouth then shuts it tightly. "I can't ask you to do that for me. Not after what I've done."

"Don't get in trouble and I won't have to. Ignoring each other hasn't helped either of us. We have nothing to lose if we try." _Save for perhaps their protection in Slade's company_. There was no telling how long Dick would keep Slade's interest either. What's to say he'd feel as strongly about sharing Dick in five years? Maybe less. "It's better than sitting around and being unprepared for whatever role Slade wants us to play in the future."

Jason is quiet. Dick doesn't push him to speak, gaze falling down onto Jason's chest with a light and upset frown. Before Dick came to Blackgate the worst of humanity seemed to be confined to late night stories on the news. The endless monotonous droning of the newscaster playing over his head as he ate out Kori, focusing on the way her voice pitched and growled when he sucked on the slick wet heat of her clit. An entire world away, hidden in the back of his mind along with the list of other impossible scenarios that would "never happen to him." The thoughts of a mindless and stupid boy. Dick hasn't even been in Blackgate for a year and the depths to which human cruelty can sink no longer surprises him. If anything it is the creativity of their punishments that manages to spark some sort of feeling in him. And even then it is less than pity. Just the spark of a flame that is there and gone again in the blink of an eye.

He misses his innocence, but he doesn't grieve for the loss of his ignorance.

"Okay," Jason seems to say after an eternity. "I'll cause less trouble for Slade. Even if you can't, you know, make him stop. I..." Jason ducks his head. "It means a lot that you are willing to forgive me for what I did to you."

Dick hums. He can't find the words to respond. He doesn't understand so he can't admit that he can empathize with Jason's gambit. Doesn't believe in repeating accepted apologies and doubts that Jason believes that Dick really hates him so much as to take joy in his fall from grace.

"I'll get you out of here somehow," Jason mumbles later that night. When Slade's returned and made use of Dick's mouth before claiming the top bunk for himself. Leaving Dick to return to his duty of caring for Jason's limp form. "I get you out of here I swear it."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, little wing."

Dick's accepted it. He's not getting out of here.

* * *

The first time someone in the prison approaches Slade for a request to use one of his boys Dick is in the cafeteria on lunch duty. There is no doubt in his mind that Slade arranged for it to happen that way. He doubts that Slade knows of his and Jason's deal, shared in silence between the two of them. But their sudden closeness in the following weeks after Jason's return from the infirmary didn't slide under his notice.

Dick is plating some more of the cooked biscuits--hard as tacks and three times worse to taste--when he sees Lazlo Valentin sit down next to Slade. Catches a glimpse of some small object wrapped in toilet paper passed under the table between their hands and then Lazlo gets up. Grin bright on that pink, chubby and laughs that snorting pig laugh of his. He gives Slade a theatrical little bow. Slade gets up a moment after, walks over to where Jason's camped out for every lunch since returning and whispers something in his ear. Dick watches Jason's face color a furious red then a frightening pale before he nods to Slade and stands up, shaky as a newborn foal, and follows Lazlo around the corner to the laundry room.

Disgust is an acidic burn in the back of his throat. He spends most of the remaining lunch period glaring at the back of Slade's head. Furious, partly at himself for not thinking this would happen and the smaller, quieter part that's terribly okay with it. That he should let Jason take the first few men in the prison before kicking up a fuss to Slade. Hopeful that he'll be more inclined to agree. No matter what he thinks, however, changes the current predicament. Jason's been taken back to do whatever the fuck a nut like Valentin wants. Dick can only hope that Slade's imposed some sort of rules to keep it from getting out of hand.

By the time the two of them return lunch is nearly over. Lazlo comes back first, pleased as a pig in mud. There's a dot of red along the waist of his pants, still a wet, vibrant maroon. Cobblepot points it out.

"Jesus, Lazlo, if you're going to make a mess of your uniform at least remember to get it cleaned before putting it on again."

Lazlo tilts his head back and howls with laughter. Dick often forgets who the men that came from the psych ward were. It’s hard not to confuse all of them when men like Victor Zsasz and Slade exist in general pop. But he remembers now that Lazlo was one of the few. It makes his stomach sink further, especially thinking how much pain he could do to Jason in such a long amount of time.

"Clumsy of me, I'll try to remember in the future, Mr. Cobblepot."

Dick doesn't see Jason until he slips in a few minutes before lock-up, face a sickly shade of green and the sharp red mark of teeth peeking out above the collar of his uniform. He brushes past the two of then and collapses onto the bed, falling asleep instantly. When Dick crouches down beside him to get a better look at his injuries, Slade stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"I need to see if he's alright," Dick frowns and Slade shakes his head. Nods towards the top bunk and pushes Dick up onto it.

"He's a grown man, he can take care of his scraps himself. Now," Slade pulls Dick onto his lap. Turns him around and then forces Dick's cheek onto the bed. "Let's hear that voice of yours, pretty bird. Certainly helps the rest of the men on the cellblock sleep."

Dick bites down on his lip and lets Slade fuck him with only a mouthful of spit to ease the way. It disgusts him how much his body's adjusted to it since the first few times. The lack of resistance or tension that stiffens his spine. The brush of Slade's teeth to the knot of his spinal vertebra right beneath the crown of his skull have him relaxing instantly. Better to accept defeat than being torn open again and again.

No one comes to Jason the following day, but Dick can tell it’s on everyone's mind. They watch him at breakfast with the same intensity they did when Dick first came to Blackgate. Finally getting what he wished for a month ago Dick finds himself throwing up in the bathroom. How could he have ever wanted that fate for someone? It makes him as bad as the rest of them.

With Nathan gone and none of the men willing to voluntarily submit themselves to be Blackgate's new community plaything, the men scramble to pay the price Slade's set to get a chance with Jason. Dick hardly knows what it is. Doesn't remember what Lazlo offered to get a chance only that it varies by the day. Some days, when the price is easier to come by, multiple men take Jason away by the hour.

When it's harder, Jason might be lucky enough to only have three men he is required to service. Dick hates all of them and their disgusting grabby fingers that tear at Jason's uniform or whistle and smack his ass when he walks by.

It is only after the third week when Jason is limp and fucked out that Dick finally stands up to Slade.

Harvey Dent is one of Jason's re-occurring visitors. He's arguably one of the worst. Most of the men at Blackgate are satisfied by, as Jason describes it, holding him still by the hair and fucking his mouth until they get their rocks off. Less than half actually fuck him and Slade tends to keep the men who inflicted the most damage on Nathan's psyche--like Napier--at bay. Dent is one of the few true sadists that Slade lets get within range at any give time.

Dent often leaves bruises on Jason's chest and throat.

He remembers Jason from the outside, back when he was serving district attorney. Before the acid attack and the ensuing psychotic episodes that turned him insane. Jason, out of sheer luck, got out of many of the convictions. Many lower Red Hoods gang members had been willing to take the fall for him. Dozens of terrified witnesses backed out last minute. The trial of Jason Todd never went to Dent, like he had planned it to. Instead, it went to Damon Matthews who transferred out from Los Angeles at the behest of Police Commissioner James Gordon. Matthews convicted Todd while Dent watched the trial from the interior of a white padded room. Screaming at every hospital worker who had the misfortune of passing by.

Now? Now, Dent had the power to enact justice on the man that had cost him his sanity.

+

"Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?" Dent would force Jason's hand down on the bloody, leather cover of a Bible he'd stolen years ago from the prison library. His other hand curled in Jason's hair, rocking into him in short, painful thrusts. "Do you swear?"

"Yes," Jason would wheeze out.

"Say it. Repeat after me. Do you solemnly swear," Harvey would push in far enough to drive a whimper from Jason's mouth.

"I solemnly _swear_."

"To tell the truth, the whole truth."

" _Ah, ah_ , to t-tell the truth, the whole truth."

"And nothing but the truth."

"A-And nothing, fuck, _fuck,_ fuck, but the truth. Please, Harvey, _stop_."

Harvey would snarl and tear out Jason's hair by the handful. "Keep going!"

"Nothing but the truth so help me God." Jason would cry, pathetic little tears into the cot Harvey had forced him over. " _Oh, oh, fuck._ "

Then Harvey would rattle on and on about cases. Did you kill Ms. Montoya while she was undercover in your gang? _Yes_ , Jason would plead. _Yes, I did._ Did you or did you not form rackets in the East End, where you would take a sizable portion of the kickback to use on trading illegal weaponry shipped to the U.S. from Santa Prisca and Qurac? _Yes,_ Jason would moan. On the eve of February the 3rd, 2014 did you or did you not slip into the home of Sofia Falcone, take the steak knife from the kitchen and use it to slit her throat in her sleep. Then, as she lay dying of blood loss while her son cried for her, did you or did you not turn on the gas stove in the house and let it burn to the ground? _No, no I wouldn't I don't-I don't hurt kids,_ and Harvey would choke him until he was nearly dead screaming, _yes, yes you did you filthy little liar you did it admit it._

Dick can't breathe when Harvey does this. Takes Jason loudly in the middle of the cellblock and calls around a panel of "jurors" to judge Jason's guilt. Asks them to deliberate on the evidence and reach a verdict. It is always guilty. While the death penalty isn't allowed in the state of New York, something that Harvey still evidently follows, he always loops his belt off and chokes Jason until his body is nothing but a nearly lifeless sack of flesh.

+

Then he leaves Jason there, free for the men who want to take advantage to do so. As long as they ask Slade for permission first, which he usually grants.

It is after one of these sessions that Dick finally speaks up.

The fine for Jason Slade's made today is a carton of cigarettes. Dick has three. He might be in Blackgate, but that doesn't mean his kleptomania has suffered. He hides his items around the cellblock rather than the cell where Slade could find them and beat him for it. While the men argue over who gets to use Jason first Dick finds all the cartons he's hidden since coming to Blackgate and presents them to Slade.

"The whole night. I want him for the whole night, no one else."

Slade glances at the three cartons of cigarettes on the bed, Marlboros, none of those fake prison made cigs everyone trades around made of toilet paper and pencil shavings.

"Where did you get these?" Slade asks.

"They're mine. You didn't ask Harvey where he got his." Dick had watched him steal it from Butch earlier. Slade probably did too. "That seems a little biased don't you think?"

Slade doesn't bother trying to conceal the rising tide of his anger. "Don't talk back."

"I'm not. I'm offering you an exchange. Cigarettes for Jason, are you going to tell me no?"

"Technically these cigarettes are already mine by default. And it irritates me that you've been hiding them somewhere and not bringing them directly to me, like a good boy."

Dick frowns. "They were mine before I ever became your property. If you want me to start giving you what I own, you should tell me. That way we can avoid this in the future. For now, let me repeat, do we have a deal?"

"The both of you belong to me. If you wanted him so badly you could have asked for him before."

"I hadn't felt a reason to mention it before."

Slade glares at him quietly but accepts the cigarettes and stuffs them in between the bed and nods. "You go get him then."

Dick slips away, down the steps until he reaches Jason's hunched form on the floor. The men part easily, glancing up in worry to where Slade stands vigil. Watching the interaction with an intense, but narrowed eye. They won't do anything to him. They fear Slade's wrath more than whatever joy they could pull from Dick in the small amount of time they had him. It's his only ace.

"Come on, come on, up we go Jay," Dick pulls up Jason's slacks as delicately as possible. Stopping when he hears Jason hiss.

"Dick?" Jason groans. "What are you doing?"

"Buying you some peace and quiet. Do you think you can put your arm around me? That's it, you've got it."

Carrying Jason up the stairs is less difficult. He clings to Dick's neck but is careful not to pull him down to strongly. The two of them reach the top of the stairs after a few minutes where Slade waits with a cold and unimpressed eye. Dick swallows and pushes past Slade into the cell and lays Jason down on the bed.

"Where does it hurt?" Jason doesn't say anything. Dick sighs. "I know you're a tough guy, come on where does it hurt the most?"

"Back, throat," Jason tilts his head and sighs. "Ass, obviously."

Dick gets one of the rags and wets it in the cell sink. "Take off your clothes if you can cover up if you want to."

"The entire prison's already seen me naked on more than one occasion."

"If you want to cover yourself, Jason. You don’t have to.”

When Dick joins Jason on the side of the cot Jason's stripped down with his bloodstained pants over his waist. Cleaning him off doesn't take long. There are more bruises than cuts--some half-formed scabs in the process of peeling off from Lazlo's turn two weeks ago. He tries not to think too hard about all the other damage that's been inflicted on Jason since returning to Blackgate, back from whatever evil branded his chest. Doesn't want to think too hard about anything really. It was easier when he was suffering, at least he could internalize it to himself. With Jason's uncomfortable silence and subtle flinches, he can barely stand to be so close to him for a long amount of time.

Wanting nothing more than to leave him to himself to lick his wounds in peace without Dick watching him fall apart.

When he reaches the top of his pants, he stops. "Jason?"

Jason hums, feigning sleep as he lays stone still beneath Dick's hand.

"May I?"

"Don't see what's the point of stopping you."

"Would you prefer to do it yourself?"

Jason is quiet then nods and offers his hand for the wet rag. Dick turns away, staring at the gray wall, tracing along the tiny cracks that spiderweb out from the roof. Focuses on the conversations outside the cell over the small, near inaudible hisses and winces behind him as Jason scrubs away the dried flakes of red. A hand taps his shoulder and Jason hands back the washcloth, a little paler.

"Done."

Dick drops the rag off in the little laundry basket they have near the bars. Slade watches him with a narrowed eye. "Go ahead, boy."

Dick swallows past the tight lump in his throat and trudges back inside before sitting next to Jason. Opens his mouth and then shuts it. "How are you feeling?"

"Don't try to draw this out any longer than it has to be." Jason snaps then takes a breath. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to yell."

"Don't worry about it, I think I would too if I were in your situation." Jason lies back on the bed with the ghost of what could be, in happier circumstances, a smile.

"Well, I'm not getting any younger."

"I can give you a moment to relax," Dick says and lies down beside him. "I don't want it to be painful for you."

"Dollface, after what this thing's been through, painful is as normal as breathing."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Jason speaks softer. "No, but I don't want you freaking out about hurting me or anything. I've done worse to you if you remember."

"I'm not a whip for you to self-flagellate yourself with, Jason," Dick frowns. "I told you I've forgiven you for what you did. Bringing it up is only making it hurt more for all of us."

Dick reaches out and rests a light hand on Jason's shoulder. He drags the pads of his fingers up and down his spine, along the tense muscles of his back. Digs into the thick cords of muscle in his shoulders, until he draws a soft, shuddering gasp. Jason's body goes lax beneath his hand. Dick has him roll over onto his stomach and takes one of the pillows to put under Jason's chest as he slowly works through the knots. Slade told him to make use of Jason's body. Didn't mean he had to be cruel about it.

When Jason speaks again, it is barely higher than a whisper.

"When I started the Red Hoods it wasn't about the money."

Dick pauses and then continues rolling his thumbs against each vertebra in his back. Stopping and pushing whenever Jason groans. "Oh?"

Jason nods. "In Crime Alley, you either grow up to become another statistic in the numbers of murders that happen in a year or the young men who join a gang each year. I didn't want to do that, originally you know? I wanted to be somebody. Write stories like Jane Austen or something."

Dick smiles. Imagines Jason hunched over a computer in the middle of a night painting detailed scenes of Victorian women in layered dresses and men in long coats riding horses. ”That’s a good dream."

"But that's the thing, right? It was always just a dream. I never had the grades for it. I wasn't stupid, or at least I didn't think I was. Now, I'm not so sure. I missed school all the time because my mom was always sick. They just kicked me out after awhile. Thought I was nothing more than some drop-out like the rest of the bad seeds in Crime Alley. Then my dad got shot, mom overdosed, apparently, I had no birth certificate neither so no caseworker came to collect me to some orphanage when I was little."

Dick nods his head. "Sounds a little familiar. Traveling acrobats who came over from Romania without stopping by Ellis Island don't exactly have the time to get all the correct paperwork in order before their death."

"Shit," Jason says. "I'm sorry."

"I got over it a long time ago," Dick moves his hand lower. Presses the pad of his thumb into one of Jason's lower back dimples and pushes down in soft circular motions. "I wasn't trying to take away from your pain Jason if that's what you thought I was doing. I was only saying that we are cut from the same cloth in this instance. What happened after the death of your parents?"

"Did little errands for some of the older boys that were in gangs. I was planning on joining the Maroni or Falcone family until I found out that being Italian was part of the requirement. Along with being a little older than twelve." Dick felt Slade staring so he moved his hand lower, just to the crest of Jason's ass with a little exhale of breath. Jason stiffens so Dick leans forward and presses a kiss, barely any harder than the graze of a butterfly wing.

"My parents died when I was really young, by an accident that was no accident. Someone in the mob, Tony Zucco, asked for insurance money. Mr. Haley, the boss," Dick touches his lips softly to the shell of Jason's ear. Lowers his voice until it is only Jason who can hear. "Said no. Saw Zucco walking out of the tent before the performance. Didn't tell anyone and that night I watched my mom and dad fall out of the sky and lost my entire world."

"Dick," Jason says, wet. "I'm sorry."

"Police didn't want an eight-year-old part of an act that killed both of his parents. Even though I had guardians in the trope they sent me to live in an orphanage. It was a run-down place in the middle of Gotham. The nuns who ran it were nice, but kindness doesn't fill stomachs. There were a lot of days when the food we ate was expired if we could even bear to eat it at all. Never saw the point in rooting around through the trash when I could just slip what I could from people's plates. I mean there was no way they were getting to eat it all were they?"

Dick hesitantly moves his hand lower, to cup the round curve of Jason's ass. This time he doesn't jolt.

"Believe me, little wing, I'm the last person that's going to judge you on doing things you need to do to survive," Dick pauses. Rubs his thumb against the red, tender skin of Jason's abused hole. Shushes him softly when he whines. "Then keeps doing it because you don't know how to live any other way. I didn't have to keep stealing to survive. I could have used the programs the orphanage offered to those that left. I could have taken advantage of the Fox-Pennyworth Memorial grants to underprivileged. I did nothing. Instead, I stole and lied and manipulated to get what I thought the world owed me."

"But underneath it all, you're a good person," Jason grips the pillow tighter as Dick slides in just the very tip of his finger. "Still are."

"In the few days after you came to Slade when you were in the midst of that catatonic-state, I wanted the entire staff of Blackgate to have you."

Jason tenses. Dick withdraws his finger and reaches under the cot for the bottle of lube Slade owns. Opens it, pours a decent amount on his fingers then onto Jason's twitching hole. Rubs at the skin and slips his finger lightly back inside. "I admit it. If I were a good man I wouldn't be here. I would have stopped stealing years ago and I wouldn't have entertained the idea of putting you in my place."

"But you didn't," Jason looks over his shoulder, blue eyes desperate. "You could have asked Slade to do anything to me, but you didn't."

"Because I'm _human,_ Jason. That's why I didn't." And that's what separates Dick from Jason, from most of the men inside of Blackgate. Dick is not a good man. Given the chance, he'd go right back to what he had been doing outside of Blackgate. He'd just do it smarter. But even Dick knows, down in his selfish heart, that to throw a man into a pit where torture and rape are as normal as breathing would wipe away whatever humanity Dick might have once claimed to own. Dick might be beyond rock bottom, but he refuses to throw himself any further off the ledge.

Dick reaches out and rests his hand on top of Jason's. Eases his grip on the pillow and slides his fingers between Jason's. Squeezes it slightly and slides in another finger. Jason's still loose from Harvey's abuse. Dick goes in easy. Carefully mapping out the tender spots inside him with the pads of his fingers then scooping out what remains of the cum left inside.

"Are you going to fuck me Dick?" Jason asks softly.

Dick wants to. Oh does he want to. Maybe some other time, when Slade isn't watching them from the corner of his eye and Dick hasn't paid for his time like some ride at a fairground. He shakes his head and rests his forehead against the fever-hot skin of Jason’s shoulder.

"No, little wing, I'm not," Dick brushes his fingers deeper inside Jason. He noses along his throat, kissing the rumbling line when Jason moans, toying with his prostate.

"But?" Jason tries to pull away. Dick presses his hand down to keep him in place. Continues to scissor and push deep inside him until Jason is panting and grinding back against his fingers.

"But nothing, I bought your time. Slade said I had to use you, didn't say how. If I want to finger you into the mattress and then kiss along your back until you can't do anything but lie there limp and asleep then that's what I'll do."

Jason whines and buries his face in the pillow. " _Jesus_."

"Just breath in through your mouth, Jason," Dick slowly trails the other hand around his waist. Cups his hardening cock against the bed. "That's it, Jay."

It doesn't take long to bring Jason off. Tender and raw from Harvey, Dick hardly has to do much to bring him to the edge, sensations bordering on painful. Jason cries, just a few tears that Dick brushes away with the soft edges of his lips, whispering reassurances into his ear. _You're so good, Jason, you're so good_. Jason twitches in his hand, clenches down on his fingers and rocks back and forth, unable to escape Dick's touch.

Dick gets hard watching the way Jason's cheeks flush a delightful pink. The way his wet mouth opens in a small, cute little "o." How his eyebrows pinch together above dark, eyelashes heavy with tears. He's embarrassed when he realizes he's rocking’s hips against one of Jason's thick thighs. _He's beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous._

He stops and rolls Jason onto his side, ignores the protesting keen as Dick slides his fingers free. Finds the bottle of lube on the bed and spreads a handful between Jason's thighs and his own dick.

"Dick?" Dick groans at the sound of Jason's voice. A breathless, soft whimper. Presses a soft kiss to the back of Jason's shoulders and pulls him close by the hips.

"Squeeze your thighs together for me, little wing? There we go just like that." Dick growls as he pushes between Jason's clenched thighs, warm slippery heat encasing him. Wraps a hand around Jason's cock and strokes him in a slow, building rhythm that matches his thrusts. He sinks his teeth into Jason's shoulder. A snarl shaking right through his teeth, so low it makes Jason shudder right along with it.

Jason finishes first. Panting into the pillow, shaking terribly only for Dick to pin him down and fuck him through it. Dick follows soon after, painting Jason's thighs with sticky ropes of cum and lube. He pants heavily, pulling away from Jason's body and groping around for another small rag.

He wipes both of them down, spreading Jason's legs to settle between them to mop up the cum. Jason watches him, eyes half-lidded.

"Thank you," he says after a moment. Soft, vulnerable. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Dick says with a tentative smile.

When he dumps the rag into the hamper near the front of the bars he catches Slade's dark glare. ”I hope it was good for you, Grayson."

That scares him more than anything.

* * *

Jason knows that Dick is the favorite. Slade is blatant about it. He passes Jason around like a chew toy at a dog park. Everyone gets a bite. Starts to think about it pragmatically. He hates how disgusting it feels, but takes steps to accept it as his own current normality. Just to make sure he doesn't go too insane by the mistreatment. The night after Dick buys Jason, Slade makes his displeasure known.

He doesn't fuck Dick. He doesn't beat him. It is worse than if he were to do both.

Malone isn't on guard duty that night. Jason's gotten used to him. He’s a quiet, stoic man and possibly the last decent guard inside Blackgate. His presence forces the men to wait until he’s off rotation before they try to barter with Slade. If they don’t Malone stops them and sends them packing off the solitary. If he suspects that the men might go after Jason when he leaves, Malone puts Jason on laundry duty saying he doesn’t want Jason to “get too lazy.” It’s a kind and simple gesture. Another friend aside from Dick he can rely on. He likes Malone a lot better than the others, especially Cobblepot, and his replacement for the night is a million times less the respectable man that Malone is.

Roland's out of his cage, prowling around the cafeteria like a hungry dog. Grinning and sneering at any of the men who catch his gaze and when he sees Jason the bastard beelines over. It doesn’t take a genius to know why Roland’s suddenly been prompted to evening watch when he should be watching the security monitors.

"Glad to see you walking around," Roland leers at him with a filthy, _filthy_ eye. "Expected you to be confined to a bed after what I've heard you've been up to the last couple of weeks."

 _What you've been up to_. As if it were Jason's decision. Jason glares. “I’m fine. Better if I never saw your mug again."

"Hm, with the rate everyone else is getting you, I doubt you'll last longer than Natalie." Jason burns so hotly if it weren't for Dick's gaze across the cafeteria his fork would have been in Roland's neck.

"I'm resilient."

"I bet you are," Roland says. "After the accident at the funeral. I didn't think we'd be bringing a living person back. Malone said you'd pull through but I didn't really believe him. Cost me twenty bucks." That's all his life is worth now. Twenty dollars. He'd laugh if he didn't want to curl up in a corner.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

"You're not my type," Roland moves away from the table. Eyes Dick. "Luckily, there's someone else who is."

"Good luck with that."

It's a mistake. Jason thinks Slade would sooner bite Roland's hand off for approaching Dick, especially considering everything that happened to lead Dick into his arms anyway. Jason rolls his eyes and barely pays attention. Taking his respite from interested customers while he can when he sees it. Dick tense up as Roland slips around the table. Leans in close and trails a thumb over Dick's cheek.

Slade doesn't even look.

"I hardly ever see anyone twice," Roland runs Dick's hair through his greasy fingers and smiles. A terrible, perverted thing that would make Bolton wince. "But I think I might have to make an exception for you."

"Slade," Dick says.

Slade continues doing whatever asinine thing he's found to steal his attention. He hardly looks at Dick.

"Slade," Dick says, louder and more distressed.

Slade ignores him and Jason, well.

He's halfway over the table before he thinks about what he's doing which is A. Punch Roland right in his smug face and B. Preferably hand his cock to Dick to do with what he sees fit--like flushing it straight into the Gotham sewers. The idea that this freak of a man, of a monster, can touch Dick after what he did is unacceptable.

Slade has him on the ground before he even makes across the cafeteria. Darts from the table and grapples Jason to the floor, a knee pinning him down by the neck.

"Unless you had something so urgent to tell me you had to rush to get up, you will stay on the ground, kid."

Jason snarls. "How dare you let that piece of garbage like that touch him?"

"You don't get to assume what my intentions are, boy, now lay there like a good dog while I finish my breakfast."

Slade picks himself up. Leaves Jason frothing with rage on the cement ground. Roland towers over Dick and whispers something Jason cannot, and does not, want to hear in his red-filled rage. It leaves Dick pale and disgusted, his hand twitching around the plastic of his spoon.

When Roland goes back to his rounds Slade watches the two of them carefully.

"In case the two of you've forgotten, without me, Blackgate can get infinitely worse than now. Don't take advantage of my kindness again."

The way Dick's face falls is so pathetically sad Jason’s eyes fog up and burn with frustrated tears. There is _nothing_ he can do to help Dick. To protect him the way he’s done to Jason. Slade has them stuck on the end of a sharpened sword. Doing anything will only make Slade turn the blade and carve them up more.

Later, in front of one of the security cameras that lead up to the third level, pulls Dick flush against him. Smothers the shocked gasp with a palm of his hand and sinks his teeth into the exposed, pale line of his throat. Then he drops Dick on the stairs and walks into the open door of their cell. Jason rushes to Dick’s side to help him up. Hands trembling in quiet fury.

“Don’t, Jason,” Dick mumbles but takes his hand.

Someone scoffs. Jason barely catches a mumbled word two levels below. “ _Mamahuevo_.”

 _Unless,_ unless, that is, Jason can find a proxy.

* * *

Jason doesn't make a habit of visiting his old haunts in Blackgate. Not since Slade's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't value Jason a fraction as much as he does Dick. All the men have to do is call down the hall for Slade's permission. Then they're on him like maggots to a corpse. Dick can pass where he wants when he wants freely. Blackgate barely acknowledges him anymore. And if they do, well, Jason's there to take care of their need for a black-haired, blue-eyed boy.

Logically, Jason knows that's the point of Slade's cruelty towards him. To drive a wedge between Dick and Jason until they are two enemies again. Only staying polite because of their circumstance. To weaken whatever power they've gained by re-forming their damaged bond. It's why Slade doesn’t do anything about Roland.

Slade's possessive displays of marking Dick's neck with bruises and bites in front of the security cameras, where Roland watches carefully, are about as useful as putting a pile of leaves over the meal of a starving bear. It does nothing in the pretense of doing something. Eventually, when Roland grows too desperate he will take what he wants. Slade knows this. Probably has a response planned when it does. Roland still exists in Blackgate because Slade needs him. He’s Slade's insurance. Should Dick finally decide he wants to leave there will be nothing standing in the way between him and Roland.

Evident by Roland’s approach last night.

It's why Jason, after watching Dick shrink in on himself after Roland's appearance, is so consumed with equal parts guilt and anger he goes to the only man he knows is willing to weather Bolton’s wrath.

"You must be very desperate to come to me, _pajarito_."

The other men in the weight room eye Antonio with the same respect you afford a lion. Distance and reverence. Smaller than Roland, by only a fraction of an inch, but twice as intelligent. You'd need both to escape Peña Duro and Antonio had them in excess. Blackgate was a children's playpen in comparison to the rumors Jason's heard of the most dreaded prison in Santa Prisca—let alone the entire world. Jason's also heard what the men inside had called him, t _he bane of humanity_.

"I need a favor."

Slowly the men around them go back to their equipment. Side eye glances thrown their way every few seconds. Antonio continues as if he never heard Jason speak, lifting the massive weight bar with rows of tires, tires, attached to the end. It seems to weigh nothing to him. Raising it far above his chest before dropping it with a tremendous wham to the floor.

"I am not interested."Jason frowns. "I can trade with you.”

"You have nothing to offer me," Antonio kicks the tire weights back against the wall. "And unlike some of the men here I do not run errands for little boys."

"My body-"

"Belongs to Slade. You have _nothing_ , pajarito. You are only wasting my time. Now run home before the others start calling for your master.”

Antonio gets up and goes to move past Jason. That's not happening. Cutting Antonio off is like trying to blockade a truck. He has to step to the side and then back again when Antonio backtracks and tries to walk around him the other way. Impatience growing clearer on his face with every failed attempt. Jason realizes he's risking serious brain injury here. Slade's damage and even Roman's sadism had been with precise and centered hits. With Bane's massive fists there's no telling just how bad it will be when he finally starts punching. Jason can at least hope that he can at least part of his argument out before he starts having to dodge and talk at the same time. Unlike Dick, running his mouth and fighting had never exactly been his forte.

Antonio stops and glares. "What is the point of this? I have said no and you still try to change my mind? You have nothing to offer me."

"I will do anything," Jason growls. "I am not above groveling on my knees and begging Slade to let you have me in any way you want. I would spit in Bolton's face and risk solitary and starvation for weeks if it meant getting you to think about bartering. _Don't test me, Antonio_."

Antonio frowns and looks at Jason. Carefully, with a cold gaze before he marches forward, shoving Jason out of the way, hard enough to send him flying into the gym wall before calling up to Slade, bored and smoking over the edge of the third floor.

"Wilson," Antonio barks. "What is the price?"

No one has asked so far today. Jason knows that Slade's been thinking about it ever since the confrontation with Roland. It will most likely be low. His thoughts are only confirmed when Slade shrugs like he’s open to suggestions.

"2 stamps." Easy to obtain currency, anyone, hell everyone, has a collection of them. As common as a penny on the sidewalk. If Jason weren't so desperate he'd be indignant at the sheer insult of the asking price.

Antonio nods. "I'll take him."

Jason expects Slade to demand payment up front. He usually does. This time he doesn't, willing to risk not getting paid, nodding at Antonio. Jason, in the depths of his soul, hopes he chokes.

Antonio wraps an arm around Jason's throat and pulls him along, ignoring Jason's snarling and scrambling. He drags his feet on the ground while Antonio yanks him past the cells into the hallway where Cobblepot stands and slips aside with a smirk on his face.

“An hour,” Antonio says.

“Don’t be too rough, you beast,” Cobblepot has more or less become Slade's second here. Of course, the turncoat little bastard would be. Jason should have seen it coming. A man whose loyalty is bought with money isn't a man at all.

The room that Antonio drags him to is a bare linens closet, with dirty sheets that have been piled up on the ground to act as a bed during "business hours." No one uses them. The only time they ever see action is when Jason cushions them between his knees when he blows one of the many solicitors.

Antonio shuts the door and glances around the room.

Jason can't keep his mouth shut. "I thought you didn't want me for my body."

Antonio looks at him, a measured glance before he knocks Jason so hard against the ground he wakes up, minutes or maybe hours later on the pile of cloth while Antonio sits hunched over something in the room.

"You are awake." Antonio doesn't look up. "Next time you ask for my kindness and you give me backtalk and not respect I will rip your tongue from your mouth. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Jason rubs his jaw and sits up.

Antonio gets up and holds out a slip of crumpled toilet paper to Jason. It's splotched with dark ink, words written in an elegant cursive--another surprise--and Spanish.

“What's this?” Jason takes it. He knows elementary Spanish. Can make out the words tree, Indian ocean, plane, and a date. It’s stylized in stanzas with a distinctive rhyme. A poem.

"What I expect in return for your favor."

Jason frowns. He expected a list of favors, instead, he gets a poem. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"I need it mailed to a man in Santa Prisca who works at Peña Duro named Zombie,” Antonio says. Like it’s a matter of simplicity to send a letter out of Blackgate. Like Bolton hasn’t it made it easier to break out of prison by sending letters.

"I can't send letters out of Blackgate anymore, how am I supposed to get this to your man in Santa Prisca?"

"That is not my problem. You said you would do anything for a favor, this is my asking price."

Jason glares down at the note in his hand. How was he supposed to get letters out of prison when Bolton would tear up any pieces he'd try to mail out? The only select few people that had mail privileges were Slade, Nygma, and _Dick_.

Jason swallows. Maybe he could sneak his own letter out with Dick's mail. It's his only chance at getting rid of Roland. He slips the note into the pocket of his slacks and nods.

"Okay, okay, I'll do it.”

“Now tell me, _pajarito_ ,” he practically purrs the words. “What has you so desperate that you have come running to me for help?”

“I want you to get rid of Roland.”

Antonio raises an eyebrow. “Roland Desmond?”

“Is there another that I don’t know about?” 

“I am only curious.”

“I’m not hiring you to be curious. I need you to get him out of the way. Can you do it or not?”

Antonio looks at him carefully before nodding. "A week after you mail the letter I want you to steal the chess set from my room."

A week after the mental wing shutdown, Nygma had attempted to make off with the chess set. _A lug with no brain has no use for it_. When Antonio had found out who'd stolen his set, he'd taken Nygma, writhing and shrieking over his knee and snapped his spine in half like a brittle twig. The only reason Nygma wasn’t transferred out of Blackgate was that, once he had fully recovered he was expected to regain use of his legs. With the exception of a persistent and painful limp.

That certainly didn’t Jason feel any better. “What?”

“Then I want you to hide it, and hide it well. Set up a trail to implicate that Roland was the one who stole it. When I have my chance, Roland won’t bother you ever again.”

“And if you don’t manage it?”

“We are operating on a system of trust, pajarito. I trust you to send my letter and you trust me to take care of Roland. It is a simple exchange.”

Jason frowns but nods. It’s the best deal he’s going to get. He makes to move when Antonio stops him with a hand on his chest.

"I bought your time from Slade. He will be more suspicious if I do not make use of you the way he expects, no?”

Jason’s shoulders drop. What else did he expect? There was little more to him than being a prostitute for Slade’s fancy.

Anger comes in the way of helplessness. “Then you better make it look good big guy.”

Antonio cracks his knuckles. "On that count, you will not have to worry."

* * *

Antonio is not a mean or vicious partner. It's probably the one thing that he holds over the rest of the men at Blackgate. Antonio spends some of his procured time beating Jason, most assuredly, giving him a busted, not broken nose along with deep bruises on his chest against his ribs and waist. The point of fooling Slade is to make his suffering as real as possible. Antonio has no problem with that, especially with the way Jason insulted him in front of the cell during his first week there. Before Slade had tried to make a move.

Unsurprisingly, Antonio holds a grudge. He also hates being called "Antonio."

"That was the name my father who abandoned my mother gave me. Antonio means "worthy of praise or value." Saint Anthony was also the patron of the poor. I was left to rot in a hole in the ground for a crime I did not commit. My father weighed his life against mine and found it worthless. It is one last insult upon a lifetime of them.”

When Antonio’s satisfied with the damage he’s inflicted on Jason he pins him against the cement wall in the back of the room. There is no lube, so Jason drools heavily onto Antonio’s thick fingers tracing the length of his tongue while his free hand palms the curve of his ass. He rubs the spit-coated fingers against Jason’s ass and spits twice in his palm to make it wetter. _At least_ , Jason shivers in distaste, _he’s thorough._

"Like Bane is so much better?"

Antonio, no, _Bane_ turns him around and backhands Jason hard enough to tear open a half-healed cut on his lip. Blood patterns the walls like rosebuds, budding out from a ruby vine. Twisting and curling from the cement ground up and up until it drips down from the ceiling.

"It is a name that I earned,” Bane lifts Jason back up by the collar of his shirt. Holds him against the wall and slides in two thick fingers. Jason keens. “I do not expect a boy who has only lived a few months in hell to know what it is like to be born in one."

"Yeah?" Jason winces while Bane rocks his fingers in quick, but effective thrusts. "Not all of us have an insane amount of steroid-made muscle to frighten men away with one massive fist."

"I was not always so big. Be grateful that you were not brought into the world on your back."

Jason shuts his mouth. The worst can truly happen to anyone and he doesn't know if it vindicates his suffering or only makes his outlook on life worse. The victimized turning others into victims. If that isn't depressive enough of a thought Jason's sure all he would have to do is wait for something even worse to come along. The world provides enough examples. His own dumpster-fire of a life is certainly one for the psychiatric books. Maybe one day it will be remembered alongside the Stanford Prison Experiment, which is morbidly dark and exceptionally captivating in its own twisted way.

Bane isn't gentle. He isn't indulging and he barely works Jason open enough before he’s pushing his cock in. Even then he's enormous and Jason nearly feels like's being split in half just by the thick head of his prick. Jason whines and grips at the wall, nails scrapped raw against the rough concrete.

"Where I came from, there was a man the guards liked,” Bane pants in Jason’s ear. Hands wrapped tight around the slight curve of his waist. His thighs cushion Jason on every time he pulls him down, bouncing him like a toy on his lap. “He was ugly, but most men are, but even the most dangerous and awful of men have a portion of them that is untainted. Whether that is the love or loyalty to their family or their ethical code, it does not matter. This man's soul was a bottomless void where respectable traits went to die. The staff at Peña Duro made me his first cellmate in over five years. A reward for his good behavior."

Bane reaches down and starts working Jason off in the warm, tight grip of his hand. He is methodical and he is careful. Pulling Jason's cock in a stunningly, gentle manner. A startling comparison to the relentless fucking that makes Jason feel pulled open by the seams of his veins and fragile

"This seems like a very weird method of, _ah,_ coping," Jason whines at a particularly cruel thrust that punishes the throbbing nerve of his prostate. Helplessly and utterly rooted Bane's massive dick. He wonders, a self-hating and terrible thought if this is how Dick felt in his hour with Roland. The man was certainly big if the damage that had been done to Dick's body proved anything. Jason's come to Bane a little more broken in and well-used. It's still painful. Jason can hardly imagine how it would feel if he hadn't spent the last month being passed around by Blackgate's prisoners like a highly sought after toy.

"I have already made my peace with it. Acts of cruelty in a world that goes on despite the injustices that happen within it are as unavoidable as they are normal. The world does not mourn because forgotten children are preyed upon by men with power. That is where you and I are different. My cellmate had a golden nose ring that he fawned over. When I was stronger and smarter, I bartered a weapon from an older man. In return, I told him I would find him something shiny. I slit my cellmate's throat and gave the old man his nose ring in return."

"Just because you turned out alright," and Jason uses the term "alright" _very_ loosely, "doesn't mean that men like Dick will."

"This is not about Richard, pajarito. Your guilt does not come from your abuse. You and I know that there are worse things that can be inflicted upon a man by monsters like Napier." Jason shudders at the mention.

"What you fear," Bane presses deep inside him. Hard enough that Jason's skin alights with a pleasurable fire and he comes against their chest. A liquid, hot heat filling him as Bane digs bruises into his hip with his fingers. He rumbles into Jason’s ear. ”Is the helplessness of being unable to stop it from happening to someone who does not deserve it."

Bane pulls out and places him down on the pile of linens, dazed and fucked-open. Blinking in quiet bewilderment at Bane’s puzzling, but genuine gentleness. He cups Jason’s cheek with a hand, brushing a thumb beneath the corner of his eye.

"Get my letter out and you will not have to worry about Roland being the one who hurts your friend. Beyond that, I cannot help you."

* * *

Jason doesn't know how to send out Bane's letter.

Basil, one of the only men that was a Red Hood through and through, has been transferred to the opposite end of Blackgate, cleaning out the cells in solitary. Jason thinks about risking solitary confinement, but Bolton has a tendency to strip everyone going in and Jason doubts that Basil can memorize the Spanish poem as well as Jason can. It would be better to send it out as a letter. Bane's planned for that, it's probably why the note is a poem.

He can’t test it with Malone, no matter how accommodating that man is now. He was still apart of the three men who transferred Jason out and into Roman’s hands. No matter how much Malone might regret it, and it’s obvious he truly does, he may still answer to a man with more power than Jason can give him. There's no other way with such short notice. Roland might get impatient faster than Jason’s ready and Bane’s plan needs time. He needs to send it out immediately so he goes to Dick.

Slade's gone, another meeting with Bolton— _or Roman_ , Jason shudders—it’s the only chance he'll get.

"Dick," Jason starts. "I need you to do something out for me."

Dick lies on the cot. Glances over at Jason with those big, wide dumb blue eyes of his and, despite everything, he looks so calm and happy. It makes Jason feel worse.

"Like what?"

"I need you to send a letter." Dick's face falls and he shakes his head.

"I can't, Jay, Slade and Bolton read through my incoming and outgoing mail.” He sits up and sighs. “I tried to ask about Roy once and Bolton threatened to lock me in solitary for a month. I can't risk it."

"It wouldn't be for the gang. I just need you to send a message to the man in Santa Prisca."

Dick raises an eyebrow. "Jason, here's the problem. I don't know anyone in Santa Prisca. The moment I address the letter they're going to be onto me. That’s if they even let it go out. It’s-I can't do something this dangerous. It would be different if this was my idea, but when they find out it was you? Forget about sending you back out to the demon that marked you up. What if they _kill_ you?"

"When Jack Napier was brought into Blackgate I thought I was an invincible man."

Dick looks at him, eyebrows pinched together. He doesn't say anything so Jason keeps talking. "People tried to kill me outside of Blackgate. Drive-by shootings, turf wars, assassination attempts. Once I was in the basement floor of a building that blew up on top of me. It took Artemis two days to dig me out of the rubble."

"Jesus," Dick is gray underneath how pale his face turns. No doubt doing the mental math in his head of how young Jason must have been when it happened. 15. It's a memory he doesn't like returning to.

"Even after that, I thought no one could touch me. The other gangs on the street said I'd been to Hell and back. I bought into the rumor, I thought I’d live forever and then I met Napier. I have never been so scared in my life." Jason moves forward and sits down beside Dick.

"I don't have a lot of good things in this short life of mine. I had my gang, _my family_ , and they've all been taken from me. One way or another and I was too stupid and caught up with myself to stop it. The only person I have left that has shown me a shred of decency is on the verge of being taken from me." Jason looks at Dick, and he can feel the anguish on his face before he sees it reflected in Dick's eyes. "I know you're tough as nails, Dick, believe me, I get it. But Blackgate can drive even the best men insane and I don't want that to happen to you. _Please_ , help me do this."

Dick looks at him for a long time. Studies his features and Jason's positive he's studying every single freckle on his face. Silent, but calm and calculating.

He offers his hand and Jason gives him the toilet paper with the poem. Dick reads over it and sighs.

"I'll do it. You owe me big time, little wing." Dick ruffles his hair and rolls over in the cot, back to sleep before Slade comes to wake him up again.

Jason watches his back and says softly to himself. "More than you know."

* * *

It actually doesn't turn out to be all that difficult to smuggle Bane's letter out of Blackgate. Dick writes a letter to a Mr. Haly— _basically my adopted grandfather_ —asking him about the troupe, if Raya has delivered yet and how the baby is doing, if Zitka's daughter is doing well in the performances and includes the Bane's note as a passage he needs help deciphering. At the bottom, in Romani, he leaves a code. A stupid, stupid code that when used combines all the first capitalized letters in the letter. It reads, in Romani then translated into English, send to Peña Duro, Santa Prisca, Zombie.

Slade reads over the letter, but barely. Dick distracts him that morning by getting on his knees and sucking Slade off. Jason knows, first hand, how easy it is to get wrapped in Dick’s sinfully wicked mouth. Slade curls his fingers through Dick’s black hair, tugging and pulling at his bangs. Dick parts, a glistening strand of saliva hanging off his bright, pink mouth to the top of Slade’s twitching cock.

“Little wing,” Dick calls out with half-lidded blue eyes, dark with lust. “Come here.” _Help me distract him._ Jason forces down the automatic resistance and lowers himself to the floor, crawling on his hands and knees to join Dick. Looks up at Slade through his lashes and wets his lips.

“Please,” he asks, soft. And even Slade isn’t stupid enough to resist temptation that delicious.

It’s still humiliating, them fighting to get their mouths on Slade's cock. Jason tries to remind himself it’s all part of the play, an act to finally get the cards drawn in their favor. He can’t help but shudder under Slade’s cruel and pleased eye.

He comes all over Jason's chin and neck as a reward for his good behavior. Bolton sends the letter out with Slade's approval.

The Friday of that week Dick spars with Slade. It's the fastest way to steal his attention and give Jason the time he needs to steal into Bane's cell without his notice. Even with his permission, if Jason's caught he expects the same treatment Bane afforded Nygma. Doubts a broken back will be all he's given either, no matter how much of a heart to heart they had days ago. He finds it on the top cot, lavished with care and attention on the throne of a prison-issue pillow. The chessboard is made of marble, weighty and thick with ebony and ivory pieces. Shouldn't be allowed in Blackgate, but Bane had always been a model prisoner. That allowed him certain benefits that others lacked.

Not enough to get Bolton to change his mind about the letters.

Jason slips the board into the dirty linens he collects from the cell’s hamper and the pieces he stuffs into his pockets. He'd have to separate them, there was no space big enough to hide the entire set. On the way to the laundry room, he pops into the CO locker room, takes the dirty laundry from there--carefully slipping one of the chess pieces for someone to find later during janitorial duty, into the pocket of Roland's fresh uniform.

The board is the easiest to hide. He has to pass through the construction area of Blackgate, always extending the prison for more and more inmates, to get to the laundry room. Lifts a roll of duck tape from one of the tables. He uses it to tape the board to the bottom of one of the iron tables in the room. Then, on the walk back, stuffs the ivory pieces into a nearly finished wall of drywall and the ebony pieces in the water tank of one of the bathroom stalls. Dick had told him when Jason was planning on where to store everything, the toilets are the last place anyone ever looks.

It's surprisingly easy to hide Bane's things. Jason doesn't exactly know the point of it, but Bane has always been shockingly intelligent. He uses people's assumptions of his intelligence to his advantage. If they think him as nothing more than a dumb brute that he can easily outsmart them. Not that his physical prowess is just to act as a bluff.

He never tells Bane he stole the chessboard. He doesn't have to.

That night Bane pins his cellmate, the nervous Warren White, against the cell bars and wakes the block snarling threats and obscenities.

"Where is it? Where is my chess set?"

"I don't know! I don't know where it is!"

"You are the only one with access to my cell, where is it. I will break a finger for every day it remains missing if you do not tell me."

"I don't know, goddamnit please!"

Isley's on them in a second. "Break it up! Dorrance, White! Don't make me come down there."

Bane drops Warren and snarls out to anyone who can hear. "You better hope that you find it soon."

"Dorrance, knock it off or it's a week in solitary!"

Warren is a man of shaking nerves and poor impulse whom half of Blackgate already hates for what he did to their families outside of prison. He'll start looking for Bane's chess-set and the piece Jason's left to be found. Being on the outside of the set-up, it’s amazing to watch the plan go into motion. For the first time since Bolton first came to Blackgate, Jason is starting to feel in control again. It’s reassuring.

Bane, his only possession taken from him, descends the block into fright with fleeting rages at the loss of his set that put even the most seasoned officers on edge. It’s positively delightful to watch. Calvin Rose, William Cobb, Raymond Saiko, and more are called from their other cell blocks to keep an eye on Bane. Cobblepot hiding behind Malone with every planned temper tantrum until finally, _finally_ , Roland is made a permanent guard in Cell Block A until “further notice.”

That’s when Warren finds the ivory pawn, nestled safely inside of Roland’s breast pocket. That night he presents it to Bane. It's the final straw.

The following morning Bane starts fighting with Kynazev in the weight room over nothing. Cobblepot is overseeing the equipment and radios in for back up. Roland is the closest man available who’s able to handle Bane’s size and he goes. Baton drawn and tiredly drawls. “Alright, you big child, hands against the wall-“

Roland's face meets the other end of a deadlift weight. Kynazev bolts and Cobblepot, the coward he is, locks the door on the two of them while frantically calling for back up. When help finally arrives they to pull Bane off, which requires three shots from a Taser and a tranquilizer, Roland's skull is half-caved in and the floor is covered in a pool of blood and gore. He's barely breathing when the paramedics arrive and carry him out. The rest of the men have hated Roland since his introduction to Blackgate five years ago, long before Jason and Dick ever arrived. Some of the men have been victims too. They cheer and spit at the paramedics that wheel out Roland's body and revere Bane like a god.

Jason knows that if Roland survives the night, there is no way he'll ever be returning to Blackgate. If he does it will be in Blackgate orange.

Bane goes to solitary. After Bolton hoses him down with ice water, naked, in front of everyone and beats him with a baton while Bane's still high and defenseless. Someone, Jason will never know who throws something at Bolton. A simple bar of soap that thunks against his head and falls to the floor. A loud bomb in the sudden silence. Then everyone is throwing something and no matter how many times Bolton threatens a year-long lock up no one stops. They are done listening to him.

Still, Roland is only one man in the entire monstrous population of Blackgate. But the way Dick looks at him when Roland's carted off. The impressive relief on his face is enough to convince Jason that it was all, completely and totally worth the effort.

That night he sleeps easily.

Nothing changes with Roland’s absence. Jason is still used almost daily when his lower body is too wrecked, they use his mouth or his hand. He doesn’t mind. So long as Dick free from that creature in human skin anything is better. There is no immediate threat aside from Napier who’s more or less become a permanent resident of Blackgate’s onsite hospital. Jason can handle Slade’s pointless abuse until he finds a better way to free himself and Dick from Slade’s grasp.

For now, it seems, he has the time to.

* * *

It doesn’t happen. Slade's not stupid. He finds out.

Not through any slip up by Jason, who has been meticulous in keeping his secrets in Roland's sudden accident locked deep and tightly away. Neither does Dick run to Slade’s side spilling secrets and lies as an attempt to make his punishment less severe for his disobedience. It comes in the form of a letter two months later. Addressed to Dick for Mr. Haly of Haly’s circus. It’s written entirely in Romani and Bolton hands it off to Slade. This time neither Dick nor Jason are there to provide a distraction when he reads the letter. Jason is off collecting Bane’s items to re-stash in his cell to be there when he leaves solitary. Dick, for the first time in a long time, is finally making use of the gymnastics equipment. It’s the worst case of bad luck they could have ever gotten. A chance to be at peace in Blackgate, dashed by the cruel fist of coincidence.

The letter is almost entirely innocent. It responds to Dick’s queries, naive and happy. But Haly is a man in love with the dramatic. It’s why his circus has been going on for decades and the letter ends with the phrase “O xonxano baro.” It is a Spanish dialect of Romani that translates to “the great trick.” It is like holding out a bloody hand to greet a policeman.

Bolton makes copies of all the letters that go in or out. Slade demands to see the letter Dick sent to get this response. This time there is no one to distract him. Slade is able to pick it apart, finds the clue in the letter in a matter of minutes. Peña Duro. Bane.

When Jason and Dick return to the cell from their chores. Slade is waiting for them, quietly spinning a knife in one hand. Napier sits on the opposite cot, happy as a kid in a candy store. Jason’s heart almost stops and gives up all-together.

“I’ll make this easy for you,” Slade says. “Whoever confesses first I mark last.”

Dick is halfway to opening his mouth, to take the blame for Jason’s stupid, _stupid_ plan. That’s when Slade slices open his face from cheek to chin. He’s almost too stunned to scream. But then pain, white, vicious, blinding pain grabs him by every pore and lights him on fire. He falls to the ground, hands pressed to his bloody face and shrieks. Napier claps excitedly.

“I didn’t think you could be anything more than a dreadful bore, but,” Jack leans down and pries Dick’s hands from his face. Laughing louder the more Dick tugs in his grip. “I’ve always loved being proved wrong!”

Slade ignores him, stepping over Dick like he’s nothing more than litter on the sidewalk.

“It’s worse if you lie. I’ll make it a thousand times worse.” Slade holds the bloody knife out. “I have been exceptionally lenient with the two of you. This is beyond insulting. If you were any other man, I’d cut you open from the dip of your collarbone to below your navel. Your only savior is your usefulness. But even cows and dogs outlive it, and so do men. Tell me the truth, Jason.”

“I did it,” Jason says. There is nothing left in him to lie. His friendship with Dick has become as close to him as Artemis and Roy were. He abandoned his family to his mistakes once before. He’s come too far to do it again. “I did it.”

“Thank you,” Slade says. “If you were just a little smarter, Jason I would have respected you.”

“I don’t want your respect.”

“That much is obvious. But you’ve done your part, Jason. I said I don’t make idle threats.”

Jason fights with everything he has. It doesn’t matter. Slade strikes fast and he hits hard. Slade doesn’t need the knife to make it hurt. He tosses the knife between his hands, a taunt more than a threat, punching Jason with the free hand. Switches knife hands and lays him out with the other. When he takes Jason to the floor he doesn’t stop hitting him. Napier takes over when Slade steps away to watch, glacier cold as Napier falls onto Jason with happy laughs and snarls.

Cobblepot, drawn by Napier’s shrieks, eventually comes in and tells him to break it up.

Napier isn’t Slade. He doesn’t stop.

Jason actually thinks that Jack might kill him. Until Malone, Malone with his stupid mustache and chewed up match, comes in and takes Napier down so fast you’d think he was inhuman.

The last thing Jason hears before they take him to the medical ward is Dick snarling threats at Slade’s back.

“He better not die!”

* * *

Jason dies on the operating table twice. Each time he’s brought back by Dr. Elliot who stares down at him with a frown that almost reads disappointed. With the way Jason’s body feels, he’s kind of disappointed to be still kicking too. The third time they bring him back with the shock of a defibrillator he hears Dr. Elliot snap to whatever useless nurse who’s catering to his needs. “Someone get me more propofol before this bastard uses up half the electricity in the damn place.”

They put him in a coma that lasts for three months. Three months on a ventilator with no one to see him and no thoughts to keep him company but the repeating memory of Roy and Artemis dragging him out of rubble and Dick fighting a losing battle with Slade shouting “he better not die!” No matter how many times Napier rips open his cheek.

He wakes up snarling so loud the doctor on call thinks a rabid dog broke into the ICU. Animal control wanders into his room, still half-in a coma, with a metal pole in one hand and a plastic cage in the other. “We got a call about a dog?”

It’s probably the most interesting way Jason’s ever woken up from a never-ending nightmare.

Dr. Elliot is pleased as a cat with a bowl of cream that Jason even wakes up at all. “Honestly, with the amount of air your brain was cut off from you should be a lot more damaged than you already are. Then again, most doctors don’t deviate from textbooks when it comes to treating out of the ordinary surgeries. Reading might be a little harder for you in the future, considering the portion of the brain that suffered from oxygen deprivation, but you always had a habit of doing things people said you couldn’t do Mr. Todd.”

It’s the weirdest backhanded compliment he’s gotten. The world seems a lot stranger since Napier had another go at re-arranging the contents of his brain. Maybe in this world, he’s a millionaire now. Jason spends the next two days in and out of dreamless sleep.

On the third day out of his medically induced coma, Jason sees a man.

He almost doesn't recognize the man without his sunglasses. He's tall, dark hair with deep, blue eyes that gaze at him so intently that Jason if he could squirm, would. The always present match between his lips is gone and left behind is a man so shockingly different that Jason would have walked the other way if he'd seen him on the street.

"Jason," Malone says at last. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was hit by a truck." His throat feels awful. No help from whatever tube they'd stuffed down his throat while he was down for the count. His thoughts go to Dick. "How's?"

"You should focus on yourself," Jason realizes that Malone isn't speaking without his usual thick Crime Alley accident. It's smoother, a little more refined, like the Gotham elite. Jason laughs to himself and even that hurts like a motherfucker. Crime Alley scum parading around like a high-society boy. Now that's rich.

Wincing, he eases himself a little further back on the bed. "That bad, huh? I was hoping for some good news."

"Is anything in this place good?"

"You should have been here a year ago. Still sucked, but there was less a lot less murder and prostitution going on. Might have been better than the East End."

Malone doesn't appreciate the joke. Jason never was that great at having a sense of humor. That was Dick's forte. That twists his gut in awful knots and he swallows past the hard forming lump in his throat. He's been asleep for three months. That's a lot of time for things to happen.

"Slade hasn't," Malone looks uncomfortable. "Forced Dick to do what you were doing."

That's as much of a relief as hearing Dick is still in Slade's custody can be. It's good enough for Jason.

"Not that I mind the present company, but why are you here.”

Malone purses his lips. “Do you know who I am?”

“Should I?” Jason taps on his temple. “Brain injury. Makes it harder to remember things that I should. You could be my dad and I might not even recognize your face.”

Malone looks pleasantly tickled by that. A wry smile upsetting the line of his unfortunate mustache on his upper lip. “You still have a sense of humor.”

“It’s the only thing that’s mine anymore. What do you want?”

“I can’t check in on an inmate to see how they’re recovering?”

“Not to insult your methods boss, but men like you don’t visit men like me because you’re worried about our health. What do you want from me?”

Malon purses his lips then reaches up and takes the mustache off from his lip and puts it on the table beside Jason’s bed. _Yeah, yeah, the world has gotten a lot weirder since I was in a coma_.

“My name is Bruce Wayne,” now that name rings a bell. Bruce Wayne Memorial bridge, Bruce Wayne Memorial Park, Bruce Wayne Memorial restroom. The rich boy that died ten years ago that Gotham, collectively had mourned over along with his brooding older brother Thomas. Apparently, in this world, the dead come back to life too.

“You’re a dead man,” Jason says.

“I was a dead man,” Bruce smiles that little secret smile again. He looks a hell of a lot better without the mustache.

“Thank you, the mustache wasn’t exactly my second’s best idea,” _did he say that out loud? Shit_.

“Second?”

Bruce nods. “My lieutenant, Alfred Pennyworth, he said my lower face was too recognizable by itself and I needed a spot of facial hair.”

“That’s the worst mustache I’ve ever seen,” Jason says. “You should burn it.”

“Alfred didn’t like it either.”

“What’s a dead man doing in my hospital room?” Jason says. Which he should have asked first but the mustache really caught him off guard. Can people just do that now? Take their facial hair off like tape? What a world to wake up in.

“I should have visited you later when you were a little more yourself, but I’m afraid when a guard and an inmate are nearly beaten to death within weeks of each other the world takes notice. Dead men like me have to go back to being dead, where people won’t recognize us.”

“That’s too cryptic for someone with a brain injury,” it’s also unfair. “Why is Bruce Wayne talking to me?”

“Because” Bruce's face falls. Serious calm melts away all of the mirth that had been there. “Before you were arrested, Jason Todd had been able to seize Gotham, single-handedly, out of the hands of some of the most notorious crime families in New England. And I am in desperate need of a man with those exceptional skills.”

Jason blinks. “I just woke up from a coma.”

Bruce nods. “I know, I’m sorry. I thought pulling you out of Blackgate would be easy but then I saw how deeply you had fallen in with Slade Wilson. I was trying to find the best way to get you out without drawing a lot of attention. But, as with all things,” Bruce smiles again, “you have a penchant for going off-script, Mr. Todd.”

“So I’ve been told,” Jason wets his lips. “Are you with Artemis? Roy?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry about what happened to your family, Jason, truly. I know what it’s like to lose those closest to you.” _Artemis is really gone_. Jason closes his eyes.

“If I ever see that bastard, Roman again I’ll kill him.” Jason opens his eyes and glares at Bruce, fighting through the haze of anesthesia. “What do you want? You didn’t come to break me out of Blackgate you feel bad for me. You obviously want something.”

Bruce leans back in the chair. “A partnership of sorts.”

“Not to be rude, but I don’t have the greatest track record with partnerships as you can probably tell.”

“Slade’s not the first man I’d chose for a partner no,” Bruce nods.

“I didn’t choose him, _period_. He rigged it so there was nothing I could do. How can I trust you, a literal nobody to me, to not do the same? What do you even want from me?”

“You know Gotham better than anyone else,” Bruce purses his lips. “I’ve been gone from my home for a very long time. Chased out by a man I once called my brother. I want it back. Everything in this city, at its very core, belongs to my brother, Thomas. You were able to root out families that have been here for centuries. The Falcone family, the Maroni family, the False Face Society all before you went to jail. I want you to do the same.”

“How would I do that? Can’t exactly do it from the confines of a hospitable bed boss,” Jason narrows his eyes. “Not to mention you have nothing to offer me in exchange aside from freedom. Which, I kind of stopped thinking about ages ago.”

“We can get your friend out,” Bruce says and that, that gets Jason’s attention. “After you help dig my brother’s talons out of Gotham I can have your friend released from prison.”

And how long would that take? Months? Years? There was no telling how long Jason’s recovery alone would take. That meant Dick would be alone in Blackgate, with Slade and no Jason. He shakes his head. “You get him out first or it’s no deal.”

“I can’t do that. If we took out your friend first we’d have to wait years, not months, years for another opportunity. For security to grow lax again.” Bruce glares at him, and Jason can really see upper-class Gothamite in the perfect arch of his brow to the cut of his jawline. Used to getting what he wants, even for a dead man.

“I’m in no condition to help you with anything right now,” Jason leans his head back. “I’m sure you read up on my friend. A highly skilled thief probably knows every fence in Gotham city and more black market contacts. Broke out of dozens of prisons in ‘Haven before coming to Blackgate. He’s the one you should be breaking out. Not some crippled, ex-gang leader with no gang contacts to lead.”

“You’d refuse a chance at freedom for your friend?” Bruce is adorably perplexed. Jason laughs, can’t help it. “Why?”

“Because I told him I’d get him out,” Jason grins at him. “And I always make good on my promises.”

 

_**Four Years Later** _

In the summer, when it’s so hot inland that heat rises off the cement and asphalt in visible waves, pigeons come to Blackgate.

It’s something so ridiculous to get excited over. But pigeons, irritating, shitting pests that they are, are friendlier than the biting gulls that live-year round at Blackgate. Honking and screeching high above the barbed wire fence of the island. Stealing cigarettes straight from the lips of the men that play basketball out in the middle of the field. The crows are too dark and too smart to be anything other than intelligent shadows that laugh when the men fall, chasing their tails when they fly low. Pigeons, attention whores that they are, are pretty with their green and purple necks and ringed wings. The soft coo of their voices and the way they nuzzle up against the nearest hand to offer them food.

The men will grow bored and irritated with them within a week. But for now, they are a novelty, fawned over and chased by the men. Eager for whatever attention they can get.

They remind Jason a little of Dick. Laughs to himself and takes another long drag from his cigarette. Jason watches across the holes in the fence as the men in cell block A, fight over the attention of a, particularly fat pigeon. Cooing at it from the respective sides of the field. When it gets too close to one group of the men the others shout and clap their hands and, trying to draw its attention back. Or they offer crumbs off food trapped in the pockets of their slacks. Like overgrown children trying to win the attention of a parent.

Jason didn’t like being separated from the men, now confined to the newly re-opened mental wing of the hospital—minus one Jack Napier who had been transferred to a prison a city away—but it made it easier to get medication when his seizures hit. Those were a bitch and a half the first year. He’s gotten used to them as well as anyone could. Supposedly, there’s a group of people on the outside that are thinking about getting him a therapy dog for them. Nice to know people still thought ex-gang leaders deserved a dog.

“Todd!” someone calls out behind him. Jason looks and sees the newly appointed deputy warden, Ms. Barbara Gordon, crossing the field with her hands on her hips.

“Shit,” Jason quickly stamps out the cigarette and whistles. “Hello, Ms. Gordon, what brings you out of the main office on this fine summer day?”

“No smoking, Mr. Todd, you know that’s not allowed on hospital grounds.”

“But I’m not on hospital grounds, I’m on a bench _outside_ of hospital grounds,” Jason motions a hand over the bench. Beams up at her. “And if Nygma’s bitching about it he can _learn how to shut a damn window_.” Jason turns back towards the hospital and shouts before he turns back to Barbara. All happy smiles.

“Clever,” Barbara deadpans and offers her hand. “Car’s here to take you to Gotham Central for your CAT scan.”

Jason takes her hand and stands up. The world goes sideways for a terrifying fraction of a second, Jason’s used to it by now so he holds onto Barbara’s shoulders, waits for the world to right itself then stands straight. He doesn’t thank her anymore, she knows he’s grateful. Reaching into her pocket she pulls out a pair of padded cuffs.

“Let’s see those hands, Jason.”

“Not even on the first date and you’re already breaking out the toys, Barbara, you dirty girl.” Jason lets her take them. She gently locks up each wrist then wraps an arm around him and begins to walk, keeping him steady when he gets too off balance.

“Very funny, Jason.”

“That’s my name, “Very Funny” Jason Todd.” Barbara pinches his arm and he yelps. “Easy on the merchandise, sweetheart. I’m a delicate man under all that muscle.”

“Delicate my ass, the entire arm is covered with a tattoo sleeve. You can certainly handle a little pinch.”

“We all have differing levels of tolerance. I happen to draw the line at female warden with nippy little fingers- _ow_.” Jason pushes her lightly with his elbow when she does it again. “Easy.”

The car that’s waiting for him is a standard police cruiser, nothing more, nothing less. Jason’s not a danger to anyone anymore. Can’t say he misses the four-piece suits and bite masks. Barbara gets the back door for him and helps him inside.

“See you back at dinner,” she shuts the door and pats the roof three times. The officer up front starts driving.

Jason lets his head rest back against the seats and closes his eyes. “Mr. Lawman, can you turn on the radio to something good? I’ve been hearing nothing but classical for the last month and a half and I’m ready to yank out my teeth with the next string instrument I hear.”

There’s a laugh, light and airy and it tickles the hairs on the back of Jason’s neck. The officer reaches up and tilts the mirror back. Jason’s eyes meet amused and bright, wonderful blue.

“What were you thinking little wing?”


End file.
